One Good Turn
by D3adlyG33k'sMistress409
Summary: Summary: Meg had known of him all her life but had never had occasion to warrant his assistance… until now. Erik x Meg. Rated 'M' for adult content and sensuality.
1. Part I

Rating: 'M' for adult content and sensuality

Summary: Meg had known of him all her life but had never had occasion to warrant his assistance… until now. Erik x Meg. Rated 'M' for adult content and sensuality.

Disclaimer: I own it. Leroux's PoTO is **Public Domain**.

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_**One Good Turn**_

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The little ballerina was in trouble.

She had gone on an errand for her mother: an errand that was only supposed to take an hour and half at most. Meg Giry had gone early in the afternoon to meet with Mr. Fortesque in her mother's stead. It seemed the opera could miss an extra ballet rat, more or less, but could not afford to miss its ballet mistress and chief disciplinarian.

Madam Giry's solicitor was a kind but aged man, and he had gone a bit absent-minded of late. The papers she was supposed to have verified were misplaced in a massive pile on his desk that was almost as tall as she. It had taken them almost four and a half hours to sort it all out.

And Meg realized it had gone full dark by the time it was completed.

She left quickly afterwards, keeping to the light of the gas streetlamps as much as possible. Mr. Fortesque's office was not in a bad part of town, but she did have to travel through a seedy bit to get back to opera dormitories. Vainly, she wished for her mother's rattan cane. She was foolish to not have taken it.

Picking up speed and clutching at her shawl to fight off the evening's chill, Meg all but ran down the deserted streets.

"Here now. Ain't you a pretty poppet?" Meg looked up and ran headlong into a burly man standing straight in the middle of her path. She was knocked to her knees. Luckily, with the inborn grace of ballerina, she knew how to fall and was on her feet once more taking a protective stance. "That was a clever trick, girl."

"Let me pass." Her young voice rang with authority and intolerance. She _would_ be obeyed. Quickly, she scanned the area. No one was out patrolling the streets. It was dark, and she was alone.

"Oh, now, aren't you Miss La Tee Da? No, I don't think I will." The man crossed his arms in front of her and leered menacingly. "Seems what you've got to pay a toll to cross this particular street, poppet." He smiled cockily, "Isn't that right Franck?" Meg gasped as she felt thick arms wind their way around her from behind. She screamed as he dragged her in the dark alley, overflowing with the day's refuse and rotten vegetables. He clapped one of his hands over her mouth, and Meg fought using her teeth, her hands, anything. Using her considerable leg strength, she caught the man in the groin, and he immediately released her, doubling over. But the other had caught up to them and slapped her face—hard! She saw stars. "That wasn't very nice, poppet, not nice at all." He slapped her again and grabbing the front of her dress, ripped her bodice to the corset. He leaned in and whispered close, "Don't worry. We'll teach you how to play nice."

Meg head-butted him, having seen one of the scene-shifters do it in a fight once. The man stumbled back clutching his head. "Bitch! You're dead!"

Meg ran blindly down the alley, heedless of the garbage, the rats, the clutching hands. She ran until her legs ached with fatigue, until her lungs burned.

Finally, she was able to see the opera house in sight and her pace slowed. Leaning against a tree, she gasped, trying to catch her breath and still her quaking limbs.

Raped. She had almost been raped.

She had been attacked, and she had almost been raped and killed.

Every warning, every story her mother had told her about the evils of the world came back to mock her. She silently gasped and shook, letting the adrenaline in her body run its course.

She refused to cry.

At length, she took stock of her appearance, feeling gingerly the areas where the men had grasped, pinched, and slapped. She would need make-up, lots of it. She assessed her extremities. Her hands were a bit bruised from where she had fallen, and her forehead felt tender where she had slammed her head against his, but she would be alright.

She was alright.

She looked down at her dress. There was nothing for it, it was ruined, but maybe if she tucked in a piece here, tied a ripped bit there, it would cover her modesty enough, provided nobody saw her in this state, to make it back to her room.

On silent feet, Meg approached the Rue Scribe entrance.

In her younger years of exploring the opera house while her mother worked, she had come across this particular entrance having observed a Persian man use it a time or two. Hiding, little Meg had seen the man press and then move a particular stone in sequence, and the door itself had clicked open. The man had come out some time later, presumably by doing the same on the other side of the wall, and little Meg had spent the better part of the day learning how he did it.

Rarely did she use this entrance, but tonight, she would have to. She did not want to be seen.

Erik paused before the gate hearing soft footsteps approaching. Someone was outside the entrance to the fifth cellar. With barely a thought, the Punjab lasso was in his hand. Hiding in the darkest shadows, he waited.

He heard the intruder tap the correct sequence on the stone interface and then the grated door swung open. A flickering streetlamp caught waves of spun gold and then dainty feet. A dress. As the obviously feminine figure lowered herself gingerly to the stone floor, his mind instantly identified who was intruding upon his domain. Marguerite Giry, Antoinette's daughter. Erik narrowed his eyes, seeing much in the darkness.

The girl had been assaulted. Her dress was ripped, torn across the bodice, artlessly patched to give her some semblance of dignity. Just what had she been out doing? And why? A flick of his wrist and the catgut disappeared back up his sleeve. Furthermore, how did she know about the Rue Scribe entrance?

The girl began to walk, and silently, he followed.

She headed towards Christine's dressing room and immediately he was on alert. Just what did she want from in there? He hid behind the mirrored passage and silently stood vigil.

Meg fumbled for the watch held at her lapel. The time was late, almost midnight. She cursed silently as she entered Christine's dressing room. Looking around, she made sure Christine was not present then immediately went to the pitcher and basin in the corner of the room. Pouring herself a glass of water, she gargled, swished, then spit. Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, and feeling a modicum more human, she filled the glass the rest of the way and drank thirstily. Thirst assuaged, she poured water into the basin, and with courage she certainly didn't feel, she met her eyes in the mirror.

She winced.

It was definitely worse than she thought. Somehow the bastard had managed to split her lower lip. Gingerly, she prodded the injury with her tongue. It wasn't too deep, but it would cause problems for her tomorrow. She assessed the rest. She wore his handprint on her cheek, a flaming reminder. Grabbing a clean cloth and a cake of soap, she bathed her face, washing the stink of sweat and fear from her skin, and then she just held the cool cloth to her cheek and breathed. Calm strength. That was what was needed to see this through. Shrugging out of her ruined dress, she stood before the full-length mirror in her corset, chemise, grey wool tights and sensible shoes.

Absently, she catalogued the rest of her bruising. There was some along her shoulders and arms. She felt gingerly along her ribs. The area was tender but wasn't injured enough to warrant investigation. It seemed the rest of her escaped unscathed. Thanking God for small blessings, she quickly washed what was uncovered, and then looking through Christine's wardrobe, she found a serviceable blue day dress that she could borrow to get her back into the rooms she shared with her mother.

After donning the dress, and wincing slightly as she bent to tie the sash, Meg approached the vanity: an assortment of cosmetics stood in well-ordered rows before her. Grabbing powder and grist, she made a paste that approximated her skin tone and slathered it on. Using a bit of green, she covered the area of the hate-filled handprint generously. And with years of much practiced expertise, she began to artfully wield the brushes and sponges until all that remained was her split lower lip.

She sighed. She could do nothing for it. Throwing on her shawl, she dug through the pouch she kept in her ruined dress and placed a coin where she knew Christine hid her mad money. Checking to make sure all was as it once was, Meg flipped the switch to lower the gas lamp, and the room was bathed in darkness once more.

She crept to their quarters and silently opened the door. Still, she heard her mother say from the bedroom, "Marguerite Giry! Do you know what time it is, young lady?" Madam Giry made her way to the parlor, her rattan cane thumping softly on the worn wood. "I expected you back ages ago." Meg turned away from the sight of her mother in her wrapper, her hair a thick, black rope falling across one shoulder as she hung her shawl on the peg.

"I returned ages ago, Maman. You just didn't see me." she muttered tiredly. "I was practicing in the second cellar and lost track of time." She turned back to her mother and started.

Her maman was standing right before her, a suspicious look on her face. "That wasn't the dress you left in."

Meg blushed hotly, knowing she was going to have to prevaricate. "No. It isn't. I'm afraid I'm going to have to retire the gray to the rag heap. When I was coming back, a woman was dumping refuse from her second story window." She winced. "It didn't hit me personally, but it was a near thing. The bottom of the dress took most of the damage." She watched as Madam Giry drew back, repulsed. It was well-known that her mother had little tolerance for filth and waste—considering them creaturely. _Ballet_, she was forever touting, _was a way for men and women to rise above and overcome their inherent bestial natures._ "I borrowed a dress from Christine's dressing room upon my return and have been in the second cellar ever since."

Her mother still looked skeptical, and Meg turned her face away lest she see the amount of makeup she had on. It would not do to have her mother find out what really happened tonight; she was held on a tight enough leash as it was without her mother tightening it even more.

"Anyway, I went to Mr. Fortesque's premises as you asked, and we were able to draw up and duplicate the papers requested." Casually, Meg grabbed an apple from the bowl in the larder and began to munch, "You know, I think Maman, that it might be time to look for a new solicitor." She swallowed. "Mr. Fortesque is getting a bit dotty in his old age. His office—" She took another bite and wagged the apple, "If you'd have seen it, you would have exclaimed it a fire hazard." She smiled jauntily while chewing. And keeping a straight face, lest she wince when she sat on the couch, Meg propped her legs on the living room table, knowing what was coming next.

"Meg Giry, get your feet off the furniture _THIS_ instant! Honestly, you would think you were raised by a pack of wolves."

Without guile, Meg stated, "But Maman, wolves don't own coffee tables." She smirked slightly and bit into the apple, the very picture of innocence.

"BED! To bed with you, young lady! And don't forget you have to get up early for practice tomorrow with Senor Fergus."

Meg groaned theatrically, "Oh. How could I forget Senor Fergus?" She proceeded to do a passable imitation of the little man. "Ms. Giry, your leg…move it just this little bit here. Yes? Miss Giry, your toe. It should be en pointe not on point! Your hands, senorita! Your hands! They're supposed to look like wings not weights. And where's my _attitude_? Just once, I would like to show him _attitude_." Meg grumbled sotto voce.

She looked up at her mother and knew from the twitch of her normally severe expression, she was struggling to keep a straight face. "That is quite enough Marguerite! He will be here at six, and so I expect you up, warmed up, and the chores to be completed by no later than five thirty." Meg looked down at her watch. That gave her barely four hours of sleep…if she _could_ get to sleep.

"Yes, maman." she stated with ill grace and an eye roll. Meg turned away and made to get up off the couch. She drew in a sharp hissing breath. The bruises on her arms and torso were starting to swell. She looked quickly. Her mother had already turned away and gone back to bed. Meg threw away the rest of the apple in disgust and went to her bedroom.

She didn't think her mother suspected anything from her performance, but who could know? One thing was certain. Tomorrow was going to be hell.

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Erik watched as, grimacing, the young woman rose from her casual pose and went to her room. Marguerite Giry was quite the accomplished liar.

She was hiding something.

And Erik would not rest until he uncovered what that something was.

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Meg awoke with a pounding head. Her stomach muscles screamed in agony as she moved to get up, and she hissed back a breath. Everything felt swollen and sore. Taking a deep breath, she rolled over and up. It was time to begin her day.

After getting ready and reapplying her makeup. After doing her chores and warming up, Meg left their rooms and went to meet Señor Fergus. The man was a first-class letch but he knew his art. If Maman only knew half of what Meg had to put up with from the man, she would make sure he left with a broken knee at the very least.

She sighed as she donned her toe shoes. He was, however, making her a better danseur. The things she put up with for her art. Going down to the second cellar, she began moving through positions. Yes, she was warm, but she was also sore from yesterday's troubles, and the Señor enjoyed 'helping' her every moment he could. He was sure to notice. Checking once more to make sure her makeup was on properly, Meg did a deep plie en pointe and looked up.

There, across the room, was a mug and a note. Getting up, she made her way over and picked up the note. In spiky scrawl, the note read:

_**Ms. Giry,**_

_**After last night's exploits, you will feel much better after you've ingested this.**_

_**Your servant,**_

_**O.G.**_

Meg dropped the note on a gasp.

"Ah, there's my pretty senorita. Are you warm and ready for me, pet?" Meg spun around absently kicking the note under the table leg.

"Good morning Señor Fergus." she stated dutifully, her mind spinning with implications.

The oily man made his way over to her. "Ah, what is that, pet? Hair of the dog?" Meg watched as Señor Fergus picked the mug up and sniffed it. With a shrug, he slung it back, and Meg winced. "Ah, peppermint. Refreshing." He belched. "Now, have you been practicing your squelches like I asked, hmm?" He bent down and felt the muscles of her legs. Meg gritted her teeth and backing away, removed herself from his grasp.

"Yes, indeed, Señor." She went floor center and took position.

"I'll be the judge of that. And one-two-Ti-Ee-Ana." The man clapped his hands and Meg twirled, coming to rest, hands extended. "One-two-Ti-Ee-Ana." She twirled again. "One-two-Ti-Ee-Ana." Once more as he picked up the pace. "One-two-Ti-Ee-Ana. One-two-Ti-Ee-Ana. One-two-Ti-Ee-Ana. One-two-Ti-Ee- No. No. No, senorita. You must keep the beat. Too slow. Too slow." Meg stopped and caught her breath. "Again!"

"One-two-Ti-Ee-Ana," and on they went in this manner for two hours. By the time they were through, Meg's legs were trembling with fatigue, and her bruised shoulders and sides were on fire.

"You did good work today, senorita." The Señor brought his arm to rest around her bruised shoulders, and she fought a wince. "You have it in you to be Prima Ballerina little Marguerite," he tapped her nose, "that is _if_ you know what it will take to get you there." He looked at her leeringly and slowly dropped his hand so that it rested possessively on her backside.

Meg quickly moved away. "I have told you repeatedly, Señor, that your advances are not welcome. If that is what you seek, I suggest you find it with one of the other girls and not me!" Meg turned her back on him as she went over to where she kept a spare cloth to dry off.

Her hackles came up as she felt him once more at her back. His arms came around her. "You will come around, Pet. I have no doubt of that." He kissed her neck lightly and something within Meg snapped. She spun and slapped his face—hard. She narrowed her eyes and stated lowly, "I believe I _will_ tell my mother our lessons together are at an end, Señor. Good day to you." Meg took a protective stance as she gestured for the stairwell. She would not allow herself to be caught off guard again, and standing straight and tall, she dared the man to try anything.

He rubbed his jaw, and she had but a second's warning before he was on her, shoving her hard against the wall, and turning her so that she was faced away from him. Meg screamed. She felt his fingers fumbling at her tights, clutching and ripping the fabric. And then she heard the metallic snick of his belt as he fumbled to undo his trousers. NO! This would not happen to her! Screaming with rage, Meg threw a blind jab, elbowing him in the groin. Quickly, she spun and kicked high, clipping his jaw with the toe of her pointe shoe.

His head snapped back, and he crumpled like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

She looked down in hate and disgust, and she screamed, letting her anguish consume her. How dare he? How dare any man think he could—that they could…." It was too much for her to take in such a small span of time, and feeling her legs give way, she fell beside his inert form.

She refused to look at him, burying her head instead in her hands and gasping in outrage. His head had made such a horrid sound when it had snapped back. Oh, God! What if he was…?

Could she have…?

Drawing a deep breath for courage, Meg quieted her sobs and slowly lowered her hands. The sight that met her eyes instantly had her sliding back three paces against the wall.

The Opera Ghost was crouched before the Señor, his black-masked visage reflecting ebony in the gaslight. Meg gulped back the scream that wanted to break free. Instead, she watched as the Ghost felt the Señor's neck for a pulse, and then his eyes—his yellow, devil's eyes met her own. She read in them solemnity as well as determination. "Go back to your room, Marguerite." he uttered quietly. "Tell your mother Señor Fergus never came for your lesson." Meg blinked. Could he be suggesting—? "GO! Go now, you foolish girl!" His tone was imperious, brooking no disobedience.

Meg scrabbled up from the floor and ran full-tilt from the room, never once looking back.

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**review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is welcome.**


	2. Part II

One Good Turn part II

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The events of those two nights replayed rapid-fire through the little ballerina's head. Even now, four months later, she still had nightmares, still could hear the hideous squelch of Señor Fergus' head snapping back.

She had killed a man. But then again, so had _he_… tonight.

Meg looked up at the rafters again as they lowered the body of Joseph Buquet from the flies. The police were calling it an accident, but Meg had looked up and seen it all. She couldn't help her scream of terror. He had strangled him.

And the only reason why the police were calling it an accident was on her say-so.

In the theatre, packed full of people, no one but her had seen. No other had bared witness to the crime but her. And as her mother always touted, _one good turn deserves another_, Meg had lied. She had told them that she had seen Buquet earlier that night, stumbling around drunk as usual. She had watched as he climbed unsteadily to the flies and then proceeded to stumble, and then overcorrect, and hang himself on one of the many loops of rope found above.

The investigation was called off soon after.

Meg watched as Raoul took Christine's hand and led her upstairs. Her friend was sobbing hysterically, clutching the Viscount's hand like a lifeline. Meg followed, wanting to offer comfort if she could.

"—me Raoul, I can't go back. Don't make me go back!" Meg quietly opened the rooftop door and peeked out. Christine was in the Viscount's arms crying, almost hysterically so. "He has killed, Raoul. He is a murderer, and I thought him my Angel. Oh Raoul!"

"Shh, quiet Christine. What is this about Angels?"

"Oh, how he lied to me. Lied! He is a monster, and he lives in a house by the lake below the opera house. He has the face of a demon and the temper to match. And I—" Meg watched mystified as Christine began to sob once more, "I—I was so foolish, Raoul! So very foolish. I—I unknowingly made a devil's bargain… and he's c-come to coll-ect." Christine grabbed a hold of the front of the Viscount's jacket with a strength Meg was surprised her normally dulcet friend had in her. "Tell me—you do believe me don't you? Please tell me you believe me!"

"Of—of course, Christine. Quiet dearest, it will be alright! We will go away from this place—tonight if we must." Meg heard Christine's sobbing abate slightly as she threw her arms around the Viscount and nodded frantically.

"Yes—tonight. They are talking about finishing the performance, but I—I cannot Raoul. I cannot go back on that stage!"

Meg's mind worked frantically to absorb the information. Christine's mysterious tutor—her Angel and the Phantom— were one and the same.

Meg watched as Christine accepted Raoul's hand in marriage, and the two kissed passionately. She heard a gasp and then a moan from above and felt cold dread settle within her. Looking up, she saw a dark shadow crouching just below the chest of _Apollo's Lyre_. The phantom was watching this tableau unfold as well. And suddenly she realized something that Christine had not yet discovered; the phantom was in love with her.

The two lovers embraced passionately once more, and Meg heard Raoul tell Christine to look for him tomorrow after the performance for he had many preparations to make for their betrothal and journey together. The couple left hand in hand making plans, and Meg hid in the shadows watching them go.

She heard a muffled cry and then a groan—a litany of Christine's name intoned over and over. The sound was heartbreaking to hear. No human voice should ever sound that shattered— that devastated! At length, with an anguished cry, Meg watched as he rose up and braced himself against the sky, "If it is to be war between us, then so be it!" Meg felt chills go down her spine, and she held her breath, not daring to blink. The expression in his glowing yellow eyes held murderous intent. Praying that he wouldn't look down and see her, Meg pressed herself as far into the darkness as she was able.

With a caped flourish, the phantom disappeared from view, and Meg could breathe again. Just what the hell was he planning?!

She thought back to the events of the last four months beginning with Christine's replacement as Marguerite in _Faust_. It all seemed so obvious now looking back. The phantom had been tutoring Christine for months, and she knew her friend had developed a _tendre_ for her celestial Angel. At the time, Meg had chalked up her behavior to the manifestations of grief. She had just lost her father, and it was to be expected that she find comfort in the church.

But oh! What a mess! The incident with the chandelier suddenly made so much more sense. That was when the Viscount and Christine started seeing one another openly. And oh! What could the phantom be planning?

Meg fought to remember every little bit of the conversation she just over-heard: a house near an underground lake below the opera house. She bit her lip.

Meg had never ventured further than the fifth cellar near the Rue Scribe and only but rarely. As far as she was concerned, that was as far down as the opera house went.

But wait, didn't Christine tell her once about a mirrored passage?

Meg's hands flew up to her cheeks. Of course! The mirror in Christine's dressing room! She would bet her toe shoes that the passage led to his underground home.

Leaving the shadows, the little ballerina began to make her way down the stairs to the stage once more. She crept up behind her mother, who was still in deep discussion with the managers and Reyer, and laid a gentle hand on her back. As quietly as could be, she stated, "I am going to bed, Maman. It has been quite the eventful night." She felt her mother's answering squeeze of her hand and a nod, and Meg left them to make her way to her rooms.

She would need a lamp and plenty of matches. Water perhaps and food: just in case she became lost. A change of clothes for she did not want to change from wearing pants; they were infinitely more liberating, and some latent instinct of self-preservation made her grab her mother's silver letter opener and place it in her belted shirt waist…just in case.

She looked in the mirror. She was dressed still in her costume of white peasant shirt and black pantaloons. But she had braided and tucked her hair under a cap and was wearing the warmest tights and most sensible leather boots she could find. As an afterthought, she grabbed her father's old leather duster and put that on as well.

In short, she looked absolutely ridiculous, but she was well prepared for whatever she would encounter in the underground depths. Grabbing her small duffle, she slung it over her shoulder and checked once more that her bed indeed looked like someone was sleeping in it. Just in case her mother checked on her during the night, it should pass muster. She lowered the gaslights and set off.

Two hours later found her still trying to get the damned mirrored passage to open. She had tried everything: running her hands up the seam, pressing little notches in the ornamental frame. She even tried prying the frame away from the door. The closest she got was feeling the slightest bit of musty air flow from the cracks she made in the casement. Finally, with a growl of frustration, she hit the damned thing with the palm of her hand.

She heard a click as the door swung open.

Her mouth opened and a short, strangled laugh emerged. That—_THAT_ was all it had taken to open the damned thing! Cursing to herself soundly, she lit the hurricane lamp she had brought. And once more, checking to make sure her pack held the matches and plenty of spare oil should it prove necessary, she set off.

The stone corridor was tomb-like. It reminded her of a mausoleum she visited with her mother once long ago. Her hushed footsteps made swishing noises on the stone and more than once, she was dismayed to see rats. She came to the first intersection where the underground passage diverged into two, and taking a piece of charcoal and paper, Meg began to sketch a rough map of where she was. The paths looked level, but Meg put the charcoal on the floor and watched as it rolled back toward her on the left and rolled away from her on the right. The right obviously led downwards, and so downwards she would go. Two more times she did this, always cataloguing where she was in relation to the intersections along the way. On the fourth, she encountered three passages. Two led downwards and one up.

She quickly discarded the upward passage for a choice, and wracked her brain for clues as to which way to choose. Her mind centered on the lake. And so carefully setting down the hurricane lamp, Meg took a moment to clear her nostrils of the smell of lamp oil and breathed in deep. The passageways smelled musty and stale. But wait. The middle one smelled of damp, and was she imagining it or did the air smell a little less stale? She went back to the far left passage and breathed in. Nope. She wasn't imagining it. The middle passage definitely held more circulated air. Gathering her belongings, she made her way carefully downward on silent feet.

Two more passages later found her hearing the lapping of water against the shore. Her pulse quickened. She dimmed the lamp as much as she could without actually putting it out, and turning the final corner, came face to face with the underground shore. Black water reflected golden in the slight lamplight, and Meg put up the shield to dim it even more. She remembered Buquet's stories of the 'magical lasso', and she saw first-hand how the phantom wielded it only tonight. Meg checked the watch on her lapel, squinting in the low light. Make that last night; it was coming on early morning now.

She looked up. If she squinted just right, she could make out a light in the darkness on the other side of the shore. Looking around, she looked for any means at all of access to the other side. A boat perhaps?

Yes, just there she spied a tiny pontoon boat bobbing slightly on the shore. But what did that mean? Was the phantom out? Was he home? Did he have another entrance to his underground abode?

Her mind spun with possibilities.

This was perhaps one of the least intelligent things she had ever done. She was going to surprise a known murderer in his home. Her palms started to sweat as her mind was filled with Gallows' humor.

She barely suppressed a snort as she thought of what she'd say when she got there: something about giving to Christian Charity perhaps? Or how about making a contribution to the opera house retirement fund? Maybe a campaign for women's suffrage?

That time she did let out a soft snort.

Checking to make sure she still had the silver letter opener tucked in her belted waist, she got in the boat and quietly began punting towards the other side. She guessed about halfway over, she began to hear the music. It was frantic and frenzied, and her pulse sped as her breathing hitched with exertion. She stopped punting and tried to rein in her body's traitorous response, but she quickly realized it was the music that was making her feel that way, not overexertion through energy expenditure.

As she drew closer, she realized the music was pure malevolence played at a demon's pace, and it took every single bit of nerve Meg possessed to keep silently punting along towards the shore. Upon making contact, she disembarked lightly from the vessel, doused the lamp and stowing her duffle, hid near the portcullis to observe.

From her vantage point, she could see the phantom sitting at an honest-to-goodness pipe organ, playing manically. Every so often, he would stop playing and scribble something on a sheet of music. On one of these occasions, Meg heard screaming. She strained her hearing again over the den of music, and yes, towards the back of the lair entrance, there was screaming—and sobbing.

Just what the _hell_ was going on here?!

"Come on, the monster has taken her this way!" Meg looked over at the other shore, Raoul and the Persian man from before were there bearing torches. "Remember, keep your hand at the level of your eyes, monsieur!" And even as she watched, the Persian led the Viscount to a hidden entrance in the rock, and they disappeared. Meg stood there in terror, paralyzed. Should she try and help Christine. For that was who was crying; she was certain of it.

Some self-preserving instinct made her stay just where she was, and after perhaps an hour, she heard gears beside the wall from which she was hiding start to grind and shift. The pipe organ stopped immediately as the phantom stalked over to the far wall closest to Meg and looked through a flapped hatch. She made herself smaller. Hearing a growl of rage as the door closest to her was flung open, she watched as an unconscious Raoul was carelessly dumped on the Abyssinian carpet. Next came the Persian man, and Meg watched as the phantom expertly bound them both with rope, dragging the Persian none too gently into another room.

Once the phantom left, Meg quickly abandoned her hiding place and went over to Raoul checking his pulse. It was thready but there. Taking the letter opener, she sawed through some of the rope that bound him, loosening it slightly and placed it in his hand so he could finish the job. She couldn't untie him fully, that the phantom would notice, but that should help him once he regained consciousness.

She heard a door close and just made it back to her hiding place when the phantom appeared… this time with a sobbing Christine in tow.

She was wearing a wedding dress and her head was bleeding.

"You really are a monster! Raoul! Oh Raoul! Wake up!" The phantom unceremoniously tossed her to the organ bench.

Meg saw Raoul's eyes open, and he groaned. "Christ-ine. Christine!" He tried to sit up, but the ropes that bound him were too tight.

"Come, come, Monsieur. It is so good of you to drop by to wish us congratulations. It is after all, our wedding day."

Raoul spat. "Monster! Demon! Can't you see she doesn't want you!"

"And yet, she will have me, monsieur, as her husband. Isn't that right?" The phantom stalked over to her and caressed her cheek.

"Never! I will never willingly marry you!" Meg was impressed with Christine's pluck. She stood toe-to-toe with the Phantom, her chin tilted at a stubborn angle, and jerked her cheek away from his gloved caress.

She watched as the phantom's hands shook in frustrated rage.

"I think you will find you shall, my dear, for I am giving you little choice. But choices, you do have mademoiselle. You may choose between the scorpion and the grasshopper. Choose the scorpion if you consent to be my wife. As a wedding present, you will give the denizens of most of Paris the gift of their lives. Choose the grasshopper if you do not. But be wary of the grasshopper, my dear, for it jumps jolly high!"" He gestured to the mantle where Meg saw two gilded figurines holding place of court, and Meg saw her friend look at them, confused wonder warring with horror on her face. The phantom tsk'd. "Let me speak plainly, my dear. Either marry me and we leave this place together, or deny me, and we all shall die." He laughed maniacally, and Meg knew true fear at that moment.

They were not dealing with a rational man. He was mad.

"Monster. That is no choice at all. You would steal her away, and what then? I vow that I will hunt you down and strike you where you stand." Meg narrowed her eyes at Raoul. He really wasn't helping matters in the slightest. She prayed he would notice his bonds were less tight. She saw his hands begin to work behind him and knew it was only a matter of time.

"Is Erik not gracious and merciful, Christine? There he lays, your swain, alive and unharmed. Even though, by rights, he should be dead for trespassing in Erik's home. I will not kill him, dearest, if that is your wish."

"No Erik! Don't kill him! God in heaven, what choice do I have?" Meg watched as Christine went over to the mantle and after but a moment's hesitation, turned the scorpion. A vacuous sound bubbled up from the lake and then all was silent once more.

The phantom smiled drolly, "All of Paris rejoices at your choice. Come then, my _wife_. We leave this place." The phantom—Erik—grabbed Christine, and then everything happened at once.

Raoul broke free of his bonds and lunged, knocking the phantom and Christine to the floor and breaking his hold on Christine. Meg quickly went to her friend and drew her up.

In the resulting tussle, Meg saw the silver letter opener flash, "Do not move, demon, or so help me God, you will be dead!" Meg drew a nearly hysterical Christine to her, shielding her from the sight. Raoul had the phantom pinned, the silver letter opener at his throat, and the black mask having been discarded in the tussle exposing the monstrosity that was the phantom's face for all to see. Meg watched as Raoul's grip on the letter opener tightened.

"Viscount de Chagny, don't!" Meg screamed.

Never taking his eyes off the phantom, Raoul asked quite calmly, "And why not, Miss Giry? He will never stop pursuing us until he has what he wants. I said **NOT TO MOVE**!" Raoul made a shallow cut on his throat and the phantom grew pliant once more. Meg moved quickly to the other room and untied the Persian, bringing him to the scene.

"You are a disgraceful fiend! Thinking you could steal her away."

"We must fetch the gendarmes." The Persian muttered as he began looking around for a rope. Finding some, he began to bind the Phantom's feet and hands. Once finished, the Persian had his hands and feet trussed neatly behind him; he was quite incapacitated. "They will know what to do with him."

Meg thought fast, her mind spinning. "Monsieurs, surely you must see that no one has been injured tonight." They both looked at her as if she had lost her mind. She stood up straight and tall, her chin a stubborn point. She let softness creep into her voice, "Look at him. Can't you see he's broken?" They all of them looked down. The phantom—Erik was weeping softly, reluctantly at their feet. Even as they watched, his malformed face turned away from their stares. She stated quietly, "Please. Just take the boat and get out of here."

"He will continue to pursue us, mademoiselle. I dare not take the risk." Raoul drew a weeping Christine away from Meg's arms and closer to his side. He still clutched the letter opener as one would a dagger.

"The Viscount is right in this. Of all of us, I believe only I know the full measure of what Erik is capable. Trust me, mademoiselle, you do not want this monster to go free."

Meg could feel the tide of sympathy turn against her, and she pushed herself until she put herself between the phantom and them. "While at the opera, he has not harmed a single person."

Both gentlemen drew breath to argue the point. Meg held up her hands, staying them, "Joseph Buquet's death was ruled an accident, and no one can prove otherwise. _No one_." They both looked at her affronted. "Look! The phantom has only asked the managers for his dues as the unofficial 'shadow' partner in the going's-on of the Opera. Through his actions, however bullying and tyrannical they may seem, he has made the Opera Populaire a success. No one can say otherwise or dispute this point." Meg looked pointedly at Christine, and she reluctantly nodded. "Please—" Her voice broke slightly on the word. "Please. If he promises to stay away from you, will you just go? Will you just please let him go?"

Meg watched as Raoul hugged Christine tighter to him. "Well, what say you, monster? Will you do as Miss Giry suggests?" All eyes trained on the sobbing man, and Meg felt her heart shift at the being before them brought so low.

"You really will leave me, Christine? After everything? After all I—your Angel of Music—have given you?" His voice had lost its strength, and Meg saw Christine biting her lip and looking away.

At length, she stated quietly, "Angel? Phantom? My tutor but never my friend. My protector and my tormentor. And you expected—expect my love. I—" Meg watched as Christine shook her head, turning away from them all. In a steady, cold and indifferent voice, she stated, "I cannot. I will not ever see you again, Erik. Do you understand? Even if you are in front of me, I will not _see_ you." Meg's mouth opened. "You are dead to me." A glint of something metal dropped to the ground with a clink.

At that one moment, Meg hated her friend. For with one masterstroke, the shy and retiring Miss Daae ground the bound and sobbing man to dust.

As she began to walk away, her bridal train dragging on the cold, damp ground, Raoul made to follow. But first, grimacing in disgust, he took the phantom's deformed face in his gloved hand and forced him to look up at him. In a cold voice equal to that of his fiancé, he stated, "This _will_ be the last time you ever see the two of us, I guarantee it. If I ever see you again, monster, _I WILL KILL YOU_!" With a twist, Raoul let go of the phantom's chin, and peeling off his now soiled glove, threw it in his face.

He went after Christine.

Meg looked at the Persian and lifted her brow. He looked back at her steadily. "I cannot leave you—a young woman— alone with him, mademoiselle. You really do not understand what he is capable of doing."

Meg met his steady stare with a level look of her own. "Believe me, monsieur, I am fully aware." Her eyes held the knowledge of Buquet, as well as her own past misdeeds, and she saw with satisfaction, as the Persian drew back slightly. "He has done no great injustice this night, and he does not deserve to suffer the indignity of our presence in his home a moment longer. Leave him be." The Persian's shoulders collapsed, and with a resigned sigh, he made for the portcullis entrance.

"I will call on you in a few days' time, Erik." The Persian's tone was disciplinary—condescending at the very least. Meg's eyes narrowed, and he threw up his hands. "Alright, mademoiselle, I'm going. I'm going."

Crossing the room, Meg grabbed the black mask, and averting her eyes as much as possible, in consideration from the sight of his hideous face, she began to loosen the ropes that bound him. Once they were clear, she expected him to help her, but he didn't. He lay there, quiescent, silent tears falling from his closed eyes into the rubbed and raw infectious waste that was his face.

She bit her lip and knelt before him, grabbing his gloved hand in her own. "There, there now. It's alright." She heard him moan quietly, and Meg closed her eyes; would that she could close her ears as well to block out the sound of this man's heartbreak. Drawing a breath for courage, Meg lifted her other hand and placed it gently on his cheek.

Flinching, he sobbed even harder, bringing both his hands to his face, effectively trapping her hand, clutching at it desperately. He cried, and she held still, feeling his warm breath, his tears bathe her hands. At length, she whispered, "Hush now. It does no good to cry so. You will only sicken yourself." She patted his ruined and raw cheek, feeling snot and tears mingling with the raw, abraded flesh. "I'm going to get up and get some water from my bag, alright? And then I'm going to come back, and we are going to get you cleaned up." Her heart sank when she felt him grab for and hold her hand again in desperation. "Alright. Or I can just stay here until you're ready." She situated herself more comfortably on the stone and propped her back against the organ stool.

What was she doing? Huddled on the floor with the weeping Phantom of the Opera. For a few moments, she pondered the surreal direction her life had taken. His open sobs had lessened considerably, but he still held her hand in a bruising grip. She tried to ease it, but he just held tighter. She sighed, "You know, I never did have the chance to thank you for your assistance in the matter of Señor Fergus." she stated quietly as she felt him stiffen. "He was a repulsive man, and although I was sorry to have ended his life, I cannot say I was sorry to see him dead." She looked down, and gasped to find his cat-like yellow eyes trained steadily on her, blood-shot from tears.

"Why are you here, Miss Giry?" His beautifully deep voice broke the silence.

She shrugged, "You're going to have to be a bit more specific, Monsieur Phantom." She felt his hold on her hand loosen slightly, and she waggled her numb fingers. He released her hands instantly, but tutting, she grabbed his and held them where they were beside the ruin of his face.

"Why haven't you run screaming already? Why are you being so kind to me? Why did you lie to the gendarmes for me about Buquet?" He closed his eyes, his questions taken what remaining energy he had summoned out of him.

She drew breath, "Alright. To answer the first, that would be silly. As to the second, I truly believe one good turn deserves another, and finally, because the man deserved death. He and Señor Fergus had a bet going on who could despoil the most dancers; I heard them joke about it one day. Buquet was ghastly, and if he didn't fear my mother so, I know I would have been one of his victims. So… I thank you for performing that small service, and in demonstration of my gratitude, I lied to cover your deed." She squeezed his hands and looked at him questioningly. "Now, my legs have gone pins and needles, and I need to get up off the cold stone floor otherwise I'll be useless to dance tomorrow. And you need to bathe and care for your face. It looks prone to infection."

He looked at her incredulously, stunned. She shrugged, "What? Life goes on, monsieur. Whether we wish it or no, and you strike me as a man who has a fighting spirit." She lifted a corner of her mouth and made to rise, groaning at the stiffness in her joints as she did so.

Dusting herself off, she held out her hands, "Well? Are you going to rise?" Again, he looked at her with an expression akin to amazement, but finally, he took her hand in his and made to stand.

Meg gulped. Standing toe to toe with him was a little intimidating… the man was TALL!

She looked up and watched as he hid his face from her, grasping the black mask and made to put it on. "Wait!" she stilled his movement with her hand.

"What is it mademoiselle?"His tone held the slightest trace of impatience.

"I wasn't joking when I said you need to look after your face. It's got dirt and snot, and Lord knows what else in it from your tussle on the floor."

"We will not discuss the matter of my face again, Miss Giry." His tone was chilled, arctic.

"But—"

"Enough!" With a roar, he turned around and donned the mask, and facing her once more was the persona of the Opera Ghost.

She gulped. "Ri-right then. Well I can see you're starting to get back on your feet. So… I'd best be going; my mother's probably worried sick." Meg made to depart, but before she'd even gone a step, he was in front of her blocking her way.

"What's the rush, mademoiselle? Besides, you sent away the only boat. How else do you propose to return to the dormitories above?" Meg swallowed and backed up a step. He advanced. "For that matter, how did you get down here in the first place? It is clear you did not arrive with the Daroga?" Meg looked at him, puzzled. "_The Persian_, Miss Giry."

"Ah, that." She rubbed the back of her neck, feeling suddenly very nervous. "Well, I arrived by boat obviously." He tutted and advanced another step. One more, and Meg was up against the wall looking high above her at his menacing visage.

"And how, prey, did you find your way to the boat?"

She laughed nervously, "Hmm…well that is truly an inspired tale— quite! And one best told late at night in the comfort of one's sitting room with a roaring fire and a spot of German cider and —" she blew hair out of her eyes, "you're not buying any of this, are you?"

He looked at her levelly, and she imagined him arching his non-existent eyebrows. Her voice sounded so small, "Right, well. I had gone up to the rooftop to see if Christine needed help—she was pretty distraught. And so I followed her and Viscount de Chagny up to the roof where I heard…well, you know what I heard…" she winced as he sucked in a breath, "and well, I discoveredthemirroredpassagewayandmademywaydownthe labyrinthtotheboat." She took a deep breath, possibly her last, and closed her eyes, waiting for the explosion that was sure to come.

At length, she opened one eye and found him looking down at her, his eyes agleam in the lamplight. "Have you ever heard the expression 'you're so sharp, you'll cut yourself' Miss Giry?"

Meg gulped and nodded. "Good. Then I need not expound. What you did was patented foolishness, but then again, I suspect you probably already know that." She nodded once again sharply, agreeing with him. He turned, and she took the opportunity to sidle away from the wall. She did not like the feeling of being trapped.

He gave her a sharp look, pinning her in place, "I will escort you back up to the mirrored passageway above, and Miss Giry," Meg looked at him inquiringly, both eyebrows raised, "Do not ever think of coming down here unaccompanied again." Meg gulped and nodded once more, feeling a bit like a bobble-head.

She grabbed her hidden duffle, and as a courtesy, left the food and cider she had brought on the organ bench. Hoisting it on her shoulder, she looked up at him inquiringly, "Ready when you are, sir." He led the way to the side door she had spotted from which Raoul and the Persian had come. He gestured her to precede him, and she did so. As he closed the heavy, metal door, several lime lights came on, blinding her.

"Do not look at the lights, foolish girl. Keep your eyes to the ground." Meg blinked against the glare and did as commanded looking at the sanded floor. Absently, she noted many revolving mirrors in her periphery; the sight was making her sick. His hand grabbed her arm roughly as he pulled her to base of a tree—a metal tree. She looked up. A lone noose hung from one of the branches.

Meg began to sweat.

"Umm…sir?"

"Quiet girl, and pay attention!" Meg blinked back the film of sweat in her eyes as she watched the Opera Ghost work the nobs and notches on the tree, and suddenly, the hatch above opened and blessedly cool air bathed the uncomfortably stifling room.

She watched as he climbed lithely into the tree, his height a definite advantage, and then up into the hatch. She felt a moment of panic when she thought he had left her. But she soon saw that, bending down, he gestured for her duffle bag. She threw it, and it too disappeared through the hatch. Lastly, he offered her his hand. Jumping, Meg scrabbled for purchase on the blistering metal tree, trying to catch it, and wincing as the heated metal came into contact with her bare hands and arms.

Gathering herself, she took a breath and stepped back. Keeping her eyes on the hand held out to her, she ran headlong into a grande jete, catching his gloved hand at the last possible moment. She dangled for a few seconds, until she felt him begin to pull. And working together, she was able to climb the tree and through the hatch.

He closed the door with a clang, and they both sat back in the darkness breathing heavily. She dug in her duffle for the skein of water and took a deep pull. Groping in the darkness for her box of matches, she lit one, and finding his position, held the water out to him. "Here. Drink." Meg saw him look at her again with a look akin to shocked amazement before the match burned itself out, and they were in darkness once more. She felt the skein of water lifted from her hands and then heard a sound that told of it being drunk. It was unerringly restored in her hands once more. Holding up her hand, she blinked.

In the unrelieved darkness, she couldn't even see her hand.

Replacing the skein, she dug her way through the duffle until she found the spare canister of oil and her spare dress. Sighing, she began ripping it into segmented pieces, preparing them for a torch. "Miss Giry, what do you think you are doing?" His hand was at her elbow, drawing her up from her place on the stone floor.

"It seems obvious, doesn't it? We need light, and I left the blasted hurricane lamp in your quarters." She proceeded to tear more pieces of cloth. She was stayed by the pressure of his gloved hands on her own.

"_We_ don't need light, you foolish girl. You do. I can see just fine down here." Meg gaped. "Do close your mouth, mademoiselle, you'll let in flies." She heard the tiniest bit of humor lace his voice. "Gather up your bits of cloth. There's one by your left foot there. And your…lamp oil? My, but the indomitable Miss Giry does come prepared, does she not?" She heard him bend and place the things in her duffle and then it was being lifted and placed once more over her shoulder. "Now, follow me."

She heard his footsteps grow faint as Meg stood there in the dark, blinking, trying to still her panicked heartbeat. "Umm…Monsieur?"

"What is it girl?" In three beats, he was at her elbow, taking it roughly in his own, and pulling her along. She stumbled to keep up with his longer stride.

After about five minutes of this treatment, Meg had had enough. "Really sir! Is it necessary to escort me thusly?" She stopped and pulled her arm away from him, panting with exertion. They had done in five minutes in the dark what had taken her thirty minutes to traverse _with light_. Her sides ached.

"Perhaps you would like to go on your own from here, mademoiselle?" Meg heard the mocking tinge in his voice daring her to argue. She wasn't known as _Mulish Meg_ for nothing.

She laughed lightly, "Of course I can make it from here. If that's how you want to escort me? As you've recently observed, I am most indomitable…and did I mention resourceful?" Digging in her duffle bag, Meg found the box of matches and lit one. "I can, indeed, take it from here." She held up her chin in a defiant angle, daring him to discredit her.

The match went out, plunging them into darkness once more. At length, she heard him mutter, "You forgot modest, mademoiselle." She snorted. "No. As I told you I would escort you to the mirrored passageway, and I will do so." He made to take her elbow once more, but she very deliberately took his instead. As he began to walk, or rather stalk down the corridor, she purposely slowed her pace until he risked pulling her arm out of socket or leaving her behind again.

She could feel his eyes upon her.

Stubbornly, she raised her chin; her useless eyes staring straight into the unrelieved darkness ahead.

Their pace slowed, and turning her head away from him, she smiled to herself. After another ten minutes of walking, the darkness began to turn a murky gray, and then she saw a small gleam of light that became the mirrored door of Christine's dressing room.

He paused just outside it. And they both looked into the room. It was in shambles, costuming and makeup everywhere. Momentos and keepsakes gone—taken by their owner, never to return. She felt the man beside her stiffen at the visual manifestation of what had transpired in the depths below.

"Good day to you, Miss Giry." His tone was stiff in clear dismissal. With a gloved press to the mirrored surface, the latch opened, and the mirror swung free. She looked back. The phantom had already turned away from her and had gone a good way down the stone corridor.

She felt strangely bereft.

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**review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is welcome.**


	3. Part III

One Good Turn part III

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Weeks and then months passed and things eventually settled back to normal—well, as normal as could be for an opera house. A new leading Prima Donna was brought in to take the place of Christine as it seemed she wouldn't be returning after all. To say that the announcement of her engagement and rushed marriage to the Viscount de Chagny stunned all of Paris was to put it mildly. At best, she was considered a social climber up the duff, at worst, the Viscount's gold-digging whore.

Meg had stopped reading the papers.

And as for the phantom, she had not seen or heard from him since that fateful night. Of course she had tried to access the mirrored passage once or twice, but it seemed it was locked somehow. She even explored the fifth cellar, looking for the passage the Persian must have used when he came to visit. But that too was a mystery to her.

It was with a nameless disappointment, she accepted defeat, and gradually, she put the thoughts of the phantom behind her.

Rumors of La Sorelli's retirement in the coming season began to circulate amongst the battery. And it was with true surprise that Meg found she was in consideration for the ballet's lead in the upcoming production. Long were the hours she toiled and trained; up every morning before the first rays of dawn, and more often than not, she would practice late into the night. Sometimes, when no one was around, she would practice on stage with none but the creak of the aged, wooden floor and the gliding of her toe shoes to accompany her.

In her head, the ever-practical Marguerite Giry was transformed as the movements of The Dance took hold. She would imagine she was the fair and beauteous Dulcinea, the ever-graceful Giselle, or even the Swan Queen Odette herself dancing her heart out for her lover to see.

Currently, she was on the roof, practicing movements for the solo following the _gran pax de deux_ of the current ballet they were working on. The moon was out, and it was a warm spring night, perfect for dance. Graceful and sure, Meg leapt into the air and performed a grand jete, landing lightly. Two quick steps later, and she was in a series of spins and turns, gliding across the rooftop.

Inches from the edge, she stopped, and leg held in _attitude_, Meg turned en pointe and looked down. The Paris skyline was literally below her feet. An inch more, and she would have plummeted to her death.

"And all of Paris shall be clamoring at her feet." At the unexpected sound, Meg broke _attitude_ and quickly moved back from the edge. "What. _Now_ you show fear, little Giry? And here I thought the word did not exist for one such as you." The Voice sounded fond, amused even.

Meg looked up.

There, hidden in the shadow of _Apollo's Lyre_, stood the Phantom of the Opera, his violin at his chin. Her heart started to beat a clamoring rhythm. "Well mademoiselle, you are here to dance, are you not?" He began to play the opening bars of the piece she was working on.

With a shrill note from the violin, Meg blinked, how long had she been staring? She had missed her cue obviously. Quickly, she moved into position and began to dance, moving through a quick series of pointed steps that led her to the roof's edge once more, she turned and glided back, graceful and sure, feeling the fabric of her gauzy white dress float around in the wind as she spun in a slow pirouette.

He played faster, and she spun, diving into a turn that then had her leg positioned beside her head. She overbalanced and fell.

He stopped playing.

Picking herself up, Meg took position once again. His playing resumed, and she repeated the series of quick steps that led to the lifting-balance of her leg. This time she held it, and he drew out the note as she registered the position, the feeling of doing it correctly. She spun, and with a leap, landed beside the statue of _Apollo's Lyre_, breathing heavily. She looked up to find his yellow eyes trained on her in approval.

"Again?"

She nodded, and they resumed.

Onwards this went. It seemed he never grew tired of repeating the same musical phrase over and over until she could feel it, get it right. He would play, and she would dance until she felt she had mastered the piece of music. And then he would move on to the next. It was with a start that she realized the sky was beginning to lighten for the moon had set long ago. She stopped dancing, fatigue coming fast on her heels as she realized she had literally danced the night away.

And he stopped playing, looking inquiringly at her. She gestured to the sky and watched his eyes widen minutely in shock. He lowered the violin and gave her a small smirk. "It seems we have chased the sun this night."

His comment had a small blush tingeing her cheeks, but for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why. "Yes, indeed. I—well, I thank you for your assistance." Meg winced; the words sounded trite and stilted even as she uttered them.

"You are most welcome, little Giry. If you keep dancing like you did tonight, you are going to have La Sorelli nipping at your heels." Meg drew a shocked breath. Accolades from the opera ghost?! She pinched herself to make sure she was still awake.

Yep, still awake.

She sought refuge in humor, "If I keep dancing like I did tonight, I'm going to end up in St. Mary's. Oh, but my legs ache!" Meg winced theatrically and fell gracefully to the rooftop floor, stretching her tired limbs before her. She looked up mid-stretch to find that the phantom had come down from the _Lyre_ to stand before her, stowing his violin and then watching her stretch. His sole attention made her just a tad bit nervous, and so she chattered. "Umm, so where have you been these last few months?"

His eyes watched her, blinking, and she realized he was not going to answer her, "Right. Poor question. Umm, I guess a better one would be what have you been doing?"

"No. I believe a better tack entirely, Miss Giry, is to dispense with the questioning altogether."

Meg looked up in chagrin, and then mumbled to her pointe shoes. "Sorry. I was only trying to be polite. Not that I'm uninterested, mind. But that's what friends do. They inquire about the other's activities if they haven't seen them in a while."

She looked up to find him crouched before her. She started back. It was altogether too disconcerting how quietly the man could move! "And you consider me—Erik—your _friend_?"

"Well, yeah. I mean hiding a body will kind of forge a bond of friendship, you know?"

He looked at her like she was a particularly tricky puzzle to solve.

At length, he stated skeptically, "You are friends with Erik because he disposed of that trash for you?"

Meg narrowed her eyes, "Well, yes, you could put it like that. But not only for that." She held his golden gaze, "You've never even brought it up."

"Others could have, would have blackmailed me, Erik, at the very least. You knew just what to do in that situation. Which is kind of scary, admittedly, but I'm glad you did. And you wanted nothing in return for your assistance. So yeah, I consider you my friend." She reached out and touched his gloved hand. "And you should know I'm very particular about who I grant the privilege." She smiled brightly and made to stand, groaning loudly in protest as she did so. She felt his gloved hands at her sides, and then she was being lifted into his arms. "Monsieur? Phantom. Opera Ghost! What the hell are you doing?!"

"Quiet, Miss Giry, you are obviously too sore to walk back." He bent them both and picked up his violin.

Her arms automatically went around his neck, even as she stated firmly, "No, I'm not. Put me down!"

"No."

Meg huffed in outrage. He was carrying her as if she was no burden at all. Yes, she was light—all dancers had to be, but really, his muscles weren't even straining the tiniest bit.

"You are going to be sore enough this morning as it is without compounding it even further with a senseless trek." He began to walk them back to a part of the roof she had never noticed before. "Miss Giry, if you could press that notch there. No, the one beside the fig. Yes." Meg did so, and the seemingly seamless passage opened up to reveal yet another labyrinthine passageway. He carried her inside and once more, they were bathed in darkness.

"So…ummm, how many passageways are riddling the opera?" she asked to fill the somewhat awkward silence as they descended.

"More than you could possibly imagine, believe me." was his long-suffering reply.

"Will you take me exploring one day?"

"No."

She turned her head to where she thought his face was in the darkness, "Oh, come on! Surely you must know how curious this all seems?"

He navigated them around a corner, and through some sixth sense, she could tell he was looking down at her, "Yes, and curiosity killed the cat, little Giry." he stated solemnly.

"Yeah, but satisfaction brought it back, Opera Ghost. By the way, I can't keep calling you Opera Ghost, can I? May I call you Erik?"

A long, silent pause descended, and Meg felt him stiffen. She back-pedaled, "Look, if it's burgeoning too much on impropriety, I understand. But at this juncture, really, I don't see the probl—" she felt a whispered hush along her ear, and she shivered slightly.

"Yes, Miss Giry, you have permission to address Erik thusly." Meg wished she could see his face! Well, not that that would have made much of a difference due to the black mask. But she could have seen his eyes. His tone sounded almost… reverential.

"Well then …Erik, I ask that you do as all my friends do and call me Meg." She heard him inhale slightly, perhaps in shock, but then they had arrived at her quarters. She could smell her mother's ambergris perfume.

He sat her down in front of him and pressed a notch on the wall. Before it moved to open, he stated, "I must ask something of you, Megan." Meg's heart stuttered at his use of the diminutive. "You must promise me you will not go exploring and searching through the hidden passageways."

"However clever and resourceful you are, you are no match for the tricks and traps hidden throughout. You could be hurt or even killed."

Her hackles raised, and narrowing her eyes, she made to respond, but his voice, pitched low and with a distinct warning, stopped her. "Do not think to disobey me in this; it is, indeed, for your own protection."

Meg licked her suddenly dry lips, not seeing a way to _not_ promise him. "All—alright, Erik. If that's what you wish. I promise to never go exploring the passages without you." She heard a soft click, and the passageway filled with muted gaslight. It seemed they were across from the door leading to the quarters she shared with her mother.

She was gently pushed into the hallway, "Goodnight, Megan. Get some rest." and then the door closed with a barely discerned click, and she was alone.

She unlocked the door and wasn't a bit surprised to find her mother sitting on the couch, waiting up for her. She all but limped through the door, passing her mother by; she made her way to the bathroom and began to draw a cool bath to soothe her poor, over-worked muscles. Her mother followed. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, young lady?"

Her mother stood in the doorframe, her arms crossed; the very picture of barely concealed fury. Wincing, Meg stripped as carefully as possible and lowered herself into the tub. "I danced the shit out of the solo after the _Pax de deux_ tonight!" She leaned back against the tub and closed her eyes. Her mother reached down, and with an irritated movement, turned off the water. Sitting on the lip of the tub, Madam Giry tapped her daughter's leg, and raising it with a grimace, Meg felt her mother begin to knead.

She groaned her thanks.

At length, Meg opened her eyes and met her mother's level stare with one of her own, "I am ready to try for the spot of Prima Ballerina, maman." She felt her mother knead and press the muscles of her tired legs. To another dancer, it was all but obvious what she had been doing all night long.

"Where did you practice? I searched everywhere. The second cellars, the stage, even the little studio near fourth floor entrance."

Meg winced as her mother found and massaged a particularly tight muscle group. "The roof."

"Meg Giry! You know how unsafe that can be. Why you choose to deliberately disobey direct orders is beyond me sometimes!" Meg moaned as her mother gave a particularly vicious twist and pulled her big toe. She lowered her leg back into the gradually warming water and gave her mother the other limb. "Frankly, it's a miracle, my girl, that you've survived as long as you've done! Good grief, dancing on the roof! You are going to have me spinning in my grave yet! Why I couldn't have been graced with a daughter that has more sense than God gave a hairbrush I will never know. Why, only yesterday, Madam Anne remarked that you looked positively scandalous with…" Meg's ears started to burn from her mother's words. Closing her eyes, and leaning her head against the tub, she sighed, and tried to block them out.

It had been a long night!

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Erik left for his quarters to the sound of Antoinette giving her daughter a blistering scolding. Miss Giry—Megan—had he really called her that?!

His only excuse was that, in his thoughts, she had been Megan for a while now. He just couldn't quite bring himself to call the young woman Meg; it was such a common-place diminution. And he had observed that she was anything but common.

He could feel nothing but gratitude for her discretion in not relating to her mother with whom she had been practicing. And he was also glad that Antoinette was up to care for her. What could he have been thinking, having the young woman dance for so long a time?

But it had just felt so... comfortable…yes, comfortable was the word for it: himself playing the violin while she rendered artistry to his accompaniment in the most expressive of forms. In dance as with singing, there was no medium for which to channel creative genius. The dancer or singer was the creative genius, limited only by mental creativity and bodily limitation. The human being was the instrument.

In the months he had been away from the day-to-day goings-on of the opera house, he had thrown himself into studying and perfecting an aspect of the opera he had let slide for far too long. He had watched and observed the ballet dancers, Megan included, learning their strengths and weaknesses, their distractions and motivations.

For example, he now knew that around the same time every month, Megan had a need for chocolate torte and would cry over the most commonplace of criticism. Luckily, this only lasted about two days at most, but during that time, she was an absolute hellcat to be around.

He knew that little Jammes liked to dance fast pieces with lots of movement but grew frustrated at the slow. She had difficulty sustaining position for very long and grew distracted easily.

He knew that the newest dancer, Veronica, enjoyed dancing as a hobby but did not want to make it her living. She saw it as a way to meet a well-appointed gentleman. Her form was beautiful but her technique sloppy, and she was given to temper tantrums and fits of spite for those she perceived as better.

But all-in-all, Megan was leaps and bounds ahead of the others in competition for the prime spot of Prima Ballerina, second only to La Sorelli herself.

And that brought Erik to _her_. He had studied her for many months, watching Sorelli's comings and goings, her behaviors. She was seeing Count Phillip de Chagny as well as his friend, the country squire. She had no plans to retire, but Erik helped her see that a retiring life in the country could be so much more beneficial to her health should the Count de Chagny find out about his friend. His mistress quickly agreed and made arrangements to quit the opera house after the closing of this season.

Erik had learned through experiences with Christine and her rise to fame to circumvent the managers as much as possible.

Which brought him back to thoughts of Megan.

She had talent; so much so, that if she could replicate on the stage what he saw on the roof, she could surpass La Sorelli and every other dancer Paris had to offer.

Perhaps even the world.

She was meant for great things was Marguerite Giry.

Thoughts of another young woman who had such talent flitted through his mind. He ruthlessly quashed them, focusing instead on the musical score he was composing for an adaptation of Hans Christian Anderson's _The Red Shoes_. The gory and macabre fairytale suited Megan perfectly, and he was tailoring the role for her skill-set specifically.

It was challenging and more importantly, it kept his thoughts centered on learning a new form of artistic expression and away from _…her_.

Humming absently under his breath, Erik made his way to his quarters below until that evening's performance.

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.

.

Meg thanked providence once again for making her mother the opera's ballet mistress. Knowing how hard she worked the night before, Madam Giry had allowed her to sleep in and skip out a bit on her chores. Meg awoke bleary-eyed and stiff-legged, but she knew she could dance tonight without many repercussions.

She thought back on everything that transpired. The phantom—Erik had played for her all night long. And she had danced! She had danced brilliantly, catching fire!

Getting out of bed, Meg began re-plaiting her waist-length hair into a neat bun held at her nape. She looked at herself in the small mirror's reflection. There was something about her eyes, a sparkle where there wasn't before.

He had carried her.

For no other reason than her legs were sore.

She blushed at the thought and brought her hands to her face. Things she wouldn't allow herself to think about while with him began to present themselves: the smell of his cloak—wood smoke and the damp from the cellars, the feel of corded muscle of his chest and arms—even though his frame was so whip-cord thin, the way it had felt when he had whispered _hush_ directly into her ear.

She got chills from just thinking of it.

The man had something; there was some kind of _compelling force_ about him that made the feminine part of her stop and take notice.

She looked at the clock. It was almost lunch time, and deciding to give herself the early afternoon, she grabbed an apple from the bowl and made her way out of the opera and to her favorite book sellers. There, she perused the stacks and picked up the latest two folios of fiction in the series she was reading. If Meg had one vice besides chocolate torte, it was romantic mystery novels. She loved her heroes to be dark and brooding and her heroines to be trembling in fright. The stories she devoured were fictions where the hero saves the heroine just in the nick of time, where the scenes take place in a deserted castle-manor far away.

She liked the story of _Jane Eyre_ the best and would read her dog-eared copy once or twice a season, knowing many of the passages by heart. Devouring the apple as she read, Meg whiled away the afternoon, only pausing long enough to turn the page, and soon, it was bordering on dusk.

Finishing the last folio with a sigh, Meg looked up and blinked. Where had the sun gone?

She glanced absently at the watch at her lapel and gasped in dismay. The opera began in less than two hours.

And she hadn't even practiced, let alone warmed up. Clutching the folios to her, she ran for all she was worth back to the opera house and straight to her practice room. The room was in the second cellar, and shafts of the remaining sunlight beamed down on the old wooden floor from the grated windows above, lighting the dust motes as they floated by. She had set up a bar of sorts and a spare mirror from the various props and furniture that had accumulated in the opera house over the years. Removing her day shoes and stretching carefully, Meg took the spare toe shoes she kept in this room and began lacing them.

"And where have you been all day, Megan?" She looked around. Just where was his voice coming from? "Over here." She heard a click, and a small seam opened to reveal a tiny pocket door hidden in the corner molding. His white-glove could just be discerned through the darkness.

Absently, she replied, "I was reading in the park and lost track of the time; a most unusual occurrence, I assure you." All business, she began running through positions unhurried. It would not due to force her body into accepting the unnatural positions of the dance before it was ready; that was how many a dancer got hurt, "It was such a beautiful day!" In deep _plie en pointe_, she looked behind her at him, "Will you not come out into the light?"

"No." Meg hid the small sting his acerbic reply caused by turning into a deep backwards bend, stretching her vertebra.

"Alright. Suit yourself." Feeling a semblance of ready, she moved away from the 'barre' and to floor center where she ran through the positions again.

"Just what were you reading?" His tone sounded genuinely interested.

Meg did a series of _pirouettes_ coming up in attitude to where she knew him to be watching. "_The Castle of Otranto_ by Horace Walpole. The bookseller is re-issuing it a chapter every three weeks. Right now, I'm on chapter fourteen." She stood up gracefully and repeated the motions, this time slower, cutting her eyes to the side, "I could let you borrow the chapters I have already. You know, if you're interested?" With quick, light feet, she spun, performing a series of fast spins designed more to showcase speed and movement than grace.

"That would be… acceptable." Was it just her imagination, or was there a bit of warmth in his voice? Her cheeks tinged.

"So…I answered your question, Erik. You answer mine. What were _you_ doing all day?" She looked over her shoulder at him and then began running through her dances for that evening's opera. "And before you tell me to very politely mind my own business," she turned and leapt, seeming to defy gravity, and landed gracefully on her feet, "—just remember that friendship is a two-way street."

Feeling ready for that evening's performance, she turned to face him expectantly. "Do you mean to be provocative, little Giry, or does it just come naturally."

She smiled a pirate grin and shrugged, waiting. He sighed, "Well, to answer your question, I was composing today—a musical score—"

She waited.

"—tailored specifically for ballet."

Meg blinked. _"Really? _Only the ballet and not opera?" The excitement she felt showing clear through. _That_ was practically unheard of! She felt a rush of pleasure at his words.

"However, it seems my knowledge is a bit limited as to the inner-workings of the movements themselves. I know what movements I want to express my music, but I am having difficulty rendering them in a form that would be easy to follow for the average ballet rat." Going over to where he stood in the passageway, Meg peaked inside. He was dressed already in his opera regalia; the show would start soon. "In fact, Miss Giry, I would like to ask for your assistance in this matter." Meg lifted her eyebrows.

He was asking for her help? She felt flattered. "What is it you would ask of me?"

His yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness, he looked at her calculating, "I wish you to educate me on the inner-workings of a dancer's mind and art. It is an aspect of the opera for which I am, as of yet, ignorant."

"And what would this lowly ballet rat's duties entail, Opera Ghost?"

His voice was as smooth as warm cream in the darkness, "I propose a collaboration Miss Giry; I play, and you dance. And together, we decide which steps are appropriate for which piece of music. If we are successful in this venture, Megan, I am prepared to offer you one and a half percent the net profit gained."

Meg smiled like a shark, "Five percent, Erik, and you have a deal."

His eyes narrowed. "Two."

"Four." She countered, crossing her arms.

"Three." And she knew by his tone he had reached the end of his patience.

She smiled beguilingly. "Done." Holding out her hand for him to shake, he promptly took it, but where she thought it only to be a handshake, he bowed low and _kissed_ the air above her hand. She shivered, feeling warm breath caress her skin.

Taking back her hand, she cleared her throat, "So… maestro. When do we begin this little venture of ours, hmm?" Meg went to gather her stuff, needing a little space from him as much as to change into her costume.

"Tonight, I believe. Come and follow me, I know a shorter way to the ballet dormitories than traversing the halls." Without hesitation, she followed him, clutching lightly at his sleeve to guide her through the darkness. Noticing this time he had foreshortened his steps to suit her own, she felt his gloved hand cover hers where it held his arm, and she again had to suppress another feminine shiver.

Could she really be anticipating his touch knowing exactly what he looked like underneath the mask?

… …apparently, she _could_ for that was exactly what the feeling was. Keen anticipation.

She looked forward to their meeting after tonight's opera; especially being able to hear an original composition of his.

His playing of the violin during her practice had been exquisite; beautifully rendered, expertly played. And she had also heard him play the organ on that dreadful night, but even when it sounded as if the hounds of hell were breaking forth, his music was compelling.

Terrifying…but compelling.

And now, she was to be his partner, his _collaborator_ as he had called her. Well, wouldn't that be interesting?

She wondered if he had registered their attraction yet? Meg was not naïve to the inner-workings of human relations. She knew exactly what went on between men and women. Growing up in the opera house, regardless of her strict upbringing, how could she not?

But Meg had always been an observer.

And as much as she knew how to flirt and tease, she had never really done so with anyone—not seriously anyway. Christine and she had made a pair; the both of them prone to introspection. Meg, by nature, was the more gregarious of the two, and Christine the more sweet-tempered. But like as not, Meg held her own council, choosing to confide in anyone—Christine included—but rarely.

Christine did not seem to notice.

The fact remained, no one truly knew the _real_ Meg Giry: the woman who could escape two would-be rapists and continue on as if nothing happened; the woman who had killed a man. No one knew of her quiet moments of introspection, of her bookish tendencies; for she rarely, if ever, let anyone see that part of her.

In her experience, people only saw what they expected to see, and if they expected an 'empty-headed ballerina', well that's what Meg would give them. She had made it a game of discerning human nature—this one's motivations, that one's feelings—and appeared as such, donning the expected persona as surely as Erik donned his mask.

The only two people for whom she had not had to put on her 'act' had been her mother…and now Erik surprisingly enough.

She wondered if that would change.

Thus far, their interactions had been relatively friendly and only mildly volatile. Time would tell, however, if they would be more to one another. And more of what was the question?

They arrived by yet another passageway, and she felt their progress halt. "This will take you to the dormitory closet. From there, I believe you will be able to navigate your way. Until tonight, Megan." She heard a click and her mind mentally supplied the idea of him giving her a slight bow upon taking his leave. She shook her head and made her way from the closet to the dormitories.

"And just where have you been all day, Meg?" Walking into the dormitory and looking up, she spied Jammes with a bunch of others donning their costumes.

"I was running an errand for the opera, Jammes. It took most of the morning and afternoon. I didn't get back until about an hour ago."

"A likely story. I'm sure you were meeting up with Prokiev or is it Dimetri this week?" She smiled viciously, "I can never keep track." Giving a crunch on the licorice candy she was forever chewing, she stated cattily, "If your mother only knew, Meg Giry, what you got up to, she'd never let you out of her sight."

Smiling slyly, Meg swatted her on her tutu-covered rump and moved past her to the costume rack. "But that's the thing, Jammes, she _never_ will, and you will never tell her. That is, if you know what's good for you." Meg let her voice remain light, cheery even, but the underlying threat was still there. She, like many of the ballet rats in the opera house, had cultivated a rather lewd reputation among the cast. The only difference, though, was that her reputation was unearned.

The rumors began when she turned fifteen, and she didn't bother denying them. What was the point? To do so would not serve her purposes. To be branded as loose gave her power among the rats—the daughter of Madam Giry, able to pull off illicit trysts under the very nose of the master disciplinarian herself. They feared and respected her, and more importantly, they left her the hell alone. Never mind that all of her supposed conquests were a fabrication. Humorously, Meg thought, by her calculation, she should have been pregnant and have given birth several times over with as much sex as they ascribed her to having. But none of them seemed to catch on to that fact—again, people only saw what they want to see—and so she let them.

"Move it, Jammes. I need to get ready." She shoved past the little ballerina, but Jammes caught her on the arm.

In a soft high voice, Jammes stated slyly, "La Sorelli announced officially today that she will be retiring when the season ends. Tell me, Meg. Are you gonna audition to replace her?"

Meg looked down at the girl, two years her junior and three inches shorter than she, and smiled haughtily. She shrugged, breaking the grip Jammes had on her arm and sneered, laughing "Of course I am." Turning away, she let her mask of confidence fall away as she began to dress. They would expect that of the next Prima; that she be haughty and confident, aloof and sure. Meg definitely had aloof down and confidence in her abilities too, but she wasn't sure if she had what it took to be Prima Ballerina.

She had not been tried yet enough to know.

Stripping quickly, she changed and made her way to the stage to the sound of the casting call. The opera would start at any moment, and she had to be perfect.

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.

.

Ignoring the mediocrity of the singing, Erik flushed with pleasure at seeing Megan take the stage in the soubrette role. Flirtatious and coy. Lighthearted and girlish. The role suited her perfectly. He tuned out the wailings of the tenor and leading soprano. This time next year, the Opera Populaire would be dedicated solely to music and dance, forgoing Opera entirely.

Mentally, he made note of which dancers needed to work on their timing. Several of the rats looked to be asleep on their feet. He narrowed his eyes.

Madam Giry worked them hard: practicing, performing, and gaining a semblance of an education took its toll on the young women. It was clear many of them were not getting adequate rest, and it seemed some of them were not getting adequate nutrition either. He made a mental note to study this further as he went back to his observance of Megan as she danced the humorous role.

If she had the lead tonight, all of Paris would be bowing before her. Sorelli was good. That was fact. But his Megan was better.

At the end of the performance, Erik made his way back to the ballet dormitories to wait for her.

"—and it wouldn't surprise me one bit if she caught pregnant, the way she sleeps around." Erik's ears tuned out the sound of the rats' gossip as he awaited Megan.

"I know. To think, skipping rehearsals today. What must Madam Giry think? But we all know Meg has had her snowed for years!" They both tittered, "I saw Dimitri leaving after she did early this afternoon. I bet you it's him!" Erik's eyes narrowed.

"No. My money is on that new Baron patron we have. He has developed quite the taste for blondes, and Meg is no exception." The girl, Genevieve, patted her own dish-water blond hair. "Did you know he sends her flowers after every performance? Someone should tell him not to bother. The price of admission is cheaper if you just stroll on up to the gate."

"Yeah. Gratis more like." They both cackled.

"Quiet. Here she comes."

"Oh, Meg! You simply danced divinely. Tell us, what's your secret?"

Erik saw how Megan quickly shut down, hiding away her previously cheerful expression. He watched her look at the girl's frankly as she went behind the screen to change out of her costume. He saw the girls mouth _slut_ and _whore_ to one another. "Plenty of hard work, blood, sweat, and tears." came from behind the screen. _Yeah, right_. One of the girls mouthed to the other and gave an extremely lurid gesture with her tongue in her cheek and hand. _More like sleeping her way to the top _the other girl murmured. Erik watched as Megan came from behind the screen in her chemise and corset, her green day dress thrown over her shoulder.

"So tell us, Miss Giry. Where are you going tonight?" He watched as Megan scrubbed off the stage makeup, looking fresh-faced once more.

"I'm meeting a friend for dinner and discussion." The other two gave each other knowing looks.

"Discussion, huh? Is that what they're calling it these days?" The other laughed, and Megan smirked and gave a saucy wink.

"Perhaps." She donned her sturdy boots, and Erik watched as she left, the other two giggling foolishly.

"Oh, she is such a slut! If Madam ever found out…"

Erik couldn't stand to hear any more.

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.

"_WHERE WERE YOU REALLY?_" Meg had only just walked into her practice room in the second cellar. Immediately, she halted her steps and made to retreat. The Phantom sounded more than furious. She heard a muted click and realized the door to the room had been closed and locked, effectively trapping her in with him.

She swallowed.

"Come, come, little Giry. There is no need for you to be frightened so." His tone belied his words. Meg backed up until she was against the closed door, absently scrabbling for the handle. "Tut, tut, mademoiselle. You would try to leave so soon?" She heard a whisper of air and then a wired rope was around her neck, pulling taut. Meg gasped, her hands immediately going for her throat, clawing ineffectually at the wire as it began to cut off her air supply.

The Phantom of the Opera broke away from the shadows and stood menacing before her. He looked every inch the Angel of Death. She closed her eyes at the sight, trying to draw more air into her oxygen-starved lungs. She began to fill light-headed, and then she was on her knees before him, gasping against his hold and looking up at him, begging with her eyes. "That's right, Miss Giry. The Phantom of the Opera has had quite his fill of being lied to. And so, I will ask you once again, where were you really this afternoon? And do not lie for I will know." Just then, a fold in Meg's pocket gave way and the fourteen folios of _The Castle of Otranto_ she had been bringing to him spilled to the ground.

The grip on the lasso lessened but slightly as he examined in scorn the piles of paper. A receipt dated for the day's purchase stood out starkly against the wooden floor.

She had used it as a bookmark, hating to dog-ear the pages.

With the toe of his boot, he turned the receipt and read it, and immediately he let go, the wired rope disappearing from around her throat as suddenly as it had appeared.

Meg backed away, gasping, almost hysterical in her need to breathe and get some space between her and the monster before her.

"Miss Giry—" Meg turned away from him and made for the door, stumbling weakly to gain her feet. The lock on the door wouldn't budge. She could feel her hysteria rising as well as nausea for what had almost just—but no, she wouldn't think of that. For now, she needed to concentrate on getting free. "Megan—" She could feel him behind her, and suddenly, Meg grew still.

She would block him out.

She had done it a thousand times before to a thousand situations; situations too hurtful, too painful to contemplate. "—abjectly apologize and ask for your forg—" she tuned it all out, going instead to the place where she was Odette dancing for her prince. Where she could be free to indulge her wildest dreams and darkest fantasies.

They—_he_ could not touch her there.

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"Miss Giry— Megan are you hearing a word I'm saying?" Erik grew more worried as he watched a peculiar change come over her features.

It was like a candle being snuffed out. One moment, she was there crying, almost hysterically so. The next, she was center-most calm, an unnatural quietness emanating from her.

If anything, this worried him more. "Megan— Miss Giry, answer me, please."

Again, this request garnered no response whatsoever.

She wasn't even blinking.

Erik used the unusual power of his Voice to compel her compliance.

Still, no response.

Had that _ever_ happened before? Now, he was very worried. Wherever the young woman had gone, and he was sure she _was gone_, he was not permitted to follow. Bending, he lifted and carried her over to a spare divan and sat her down gently, kneeling before her and studying her carefully. Her breathing was deep, even and regular. Her pulse a steady thrumming beat.

And still she stared blankly and had not moved. And in shame, he could see a vivid bruise where his catgut had marked, and in some places cut her; little beaded rubies dotting the delicate skin at her throat.

"Megan…Megan please come back to me." He grabbed for and held her hands, bringing them to his lips and kissing the soft flesh found there. "I—I am so very sorry, my girl. Please. Come back from wherever you've gone."

Had he broken her? Was his harsh treatment her undoing?

Nausea warred with an unbearable sense of shame. Oh, what right did he have for even touching her like this? For questioning her?

She was not _his_. Not his Megan to question. And now she never would be.

Feeling broken himself, he laid his head in her lap and sobbed. "Oh Megan, Erik is sorry— so sorry for his behavior. He will punish himself, and most severely so, if only Megan would come back to him." He put his arms around her, forcing her arms to lay on his wigged head and shoulders. If she would come back, he would show her just how sorry he was.

If only she would come back—

How long he lay there was anyone's guess. Hours could have passed, but then was it his imagination or did he feel the slightest pressure on his head? Quickly lifting up, he found her calmly blinking down at him, her eyes pools of tranquility.

But even as he watched a tear fell and then another.

She looked away from him and made to remove her hands from around him, but he wouldn't—couldn't let her. "No—no, my Megan. Please. Erik is so very sorry. Please accept his apology." He lifted up her hand on his shoulder and kissed it once again. He flinched as he felt it gather into a fist.

If she were to strike him, then it would be no less than what he deserved for his behavior.

.

.

.

Meg needed to get out of there. _NOW_.

But he was grasping at her hands, pinning her down with his weight, and she couldn't move. She couldn't speak.

She wasn't even angry, not really. Just afraid. And she wanted to leave and never return to this man—this mad, broken, and lonely man. "Please, Megan. Erik is so very sorry. He didn't mean for this to happen. Please."

She steeled herself against his entreaties, his tear-filled pleas. To ask 'why' would be to give in, and that she would not, could not do. She sat there immobile as he filled her lap with his tears. And dammit! _NO!_ She would not allow him to explain. That way was weakness. And Meg Giry was not weak. But she _was_ curious. And hadn't he said curiosity killed the cat?

She snorted softly and made to rise without looking at the man at her feet. She spoke, and her voice was hoarse and raw, her throat aching from what he'd done. "I do believe Christine had the right measure of you, Phantom, and at great risk of being unoriginal, I will, however, endeavor to adopt her words as my own. I never want to see or speak to you again."

Firmly disentangling herself, she calmly began walking to the door, but she realized that he still had to let her out. It was locked, and only he knew the correct sequence to open it.

She waited. No sounds but the sounds of his tears. Again, she had to steel herself against them. No shushing footsteps, not that he would make any. "please." She closed her eyes. "please don't go, Megan." No! He had tried to strangle her for God's sakes. And there was absolutely no reason for him to do so. He should be locked up at the very least for what he had done. _NO!_

She could be waiting here all night. Trapped. With him. Absently, she examined the locking mechanism, trying a few combinations. None would work. His sobs had quieted. And Meg realized that silence reigned once more. Some sixth sense told her that he was right behind her, but still, she didn't turn around; her posture rigid, her mind firm on never seeing him again.

"Erik will allow you to leave, Miss Giry. But first, he must treat your neck and throat." His Voice sounded very small in the silence of the room. It had lost much of its resonance and power. For a moment, Meg could imagine the child Erik had been.

She felt a tugging pressure on her hand, and then it was placed solicitously on his arm, and she was being led to the secret passageway. She balked, digging in her heals, but his other hand came to rest on hers and gently he entreated her to follow. "Please let Erik do this, Miss Giry." His eyes pleaded with hers, and she gritted her jaw, anger quickly surpassing the fear she felt.

"Miss—Megan, please." Her jaw went up. "Please, allow Erik to make amends." He was not going to let her go. She would have to endure him until she could escape. The thought definitely rankled, feeding on her wall of anger. With a look of utmost loathing, she nodded once affirmatively making sure to keep her posture rigid and a good bit of distance between them. And slowly, he led them into the darkness, beginning the trek that would lead them through the dark passageways to his home. His Voice broke the nearly stifling silence between them, and Meg steeled herself to block it out. "I would like to offer you an apology, my Megan, in the Greek sense of the word."

She drew breath to tell him not to bother, but he stopped their progress, and Meg knew he was looking at her. She flinched when she felt his hand move to caress her cheek, and she heard his sharply indrawn breath. "Know that I have never— would never—that is to say I have never harmed a woman in my entire life, Megan. And believe me, I did not mean to start now." She felt his gloved hands caress her throat gently, and she couldn't hold back a hiss of pain as he touched one of the raw cuts. "I—I wish I could say there was a good excuse. But there is not. I heard the gossip of the rats as I was waiting for you to appear. I heard it, and I believed it, and I am very much afraid that I lost my sanity for a moment." His hands dropped away from her, and Meg felt the vaguest sense of loss coupled with a small lessening of the anger she felt. "I don't remember much, but I do remember thinking that it was like losing Chri-_her_ all over again."

He drew a shaky breath, then continued, "They were calling you all of those perverse and horrible names, and you, Megan, you let them. What's more, you even helped give credence to their claims. _Why?_" His tone was mystified. "_Why would you do such a thing?_ The only explanation I could come up with was that it was true. You were what they said you were, and I—I…well, there is not a good explanation for my behavior, Megan and so I won't try."

He began to walk once more, leading them ever carefully downward, but at length, he stopped them again. "It is unnatural for one such as you to be this quiet. Please, speak to me. Even if it is words of condemnation, I need to hear them—hear you. Please speak." She felt his gloved hand reach out and touch her cheek, and mostly against her will, she felt herself lean slightly into the caress. He drew a gasped breath, and then she was moving, enfolding herself in him, in his caped embrace, and she was shivering and shaking, and the walls—all of them came tumbling down as his arms came around to hold her fast.

"Oh, my girl. I am so very sorry!" she heard him whisper in a reverential Voice as he picked her up and carried her the rest of the way to his subterranean home. For once, Meg allowed herself to feel—the anger, the fear, the all-encompassing terror at such a close brush with Death. All of it—emotions she usually brushed aside and pushed down deep never to think of again—open and exposed to him—the man who caused them in the first place.

And she was shaking and crying and breathing heavily into his collar. And she just _knew_ she was getting snot all over his fine linen shirt and cape, and he had stopped walking. His hands holding her, surrounding her as he made shushing consoling noises intermixed with his apologies. And she really should be angry, she knew she _should_ want to get away.

But instead, she only clung to him harder until finally, her tears and quivering had lessened.

And she was being cradled to his chest, the only noises to break the silence were her periodic sniffling as she attempted to staunch the flow. He shifted her weight slightly, and then she felt a square of cloth pressed into her hands. Blotting her eyes and then blowing her nose heartily, she took several deep breaths and felt a semblance of calm return once more. "You can put me down now, Erik." Her voice still sounded hoarse and raw, but also now stuffy due to her bout of crying.

In response, he only held her more tightly to him and began to walk once more. "I do not think I shall, Miss Giry. I do not think I shall." They turned a corner and then they were at the shallows of the lake. And he placed her very carefully in the boat, situating his cape so that it was around her, and then agilely, he leapt in behind her and began rowing them both. "Where did you go?"

Meg stiffened. After all of that, and he still didn't believe her? She felt anger return as her cheeks started to burn. How dare the ma—"Not when you left earlier this afternoon, little Giry. I believe you there. I'm asking about where you went when I was trying to apologize. Your face was blank; you were unreachable, and believe me, Megan, I did try."She looked up at him and watched the play of muscles in his arms and chest as he slowly stroked them across the lake; his eyes so serious and filled with curiosity and concern as he studied her in kind.

She swallowed and licked her lips, needing a glass of water most desperately.

_Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink._ She snorted. His eyes looked at her inquiring, and she repeated her thoughts. He smiled a bit sadly as he continued to paddle, and stated, "_And I had done a hellish thing, and it would work 'em woe: For all averred, I had killed the bird that made the breeze to blow_."

Meg bit her lip, and then quoted softly, "_The spirit who bideth by himself in the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man who shot her with his bow._" She heard him draw a sharp breath, but she continued on undeterred, "_The other was a softer voice, as soft as honey-dew: Quoth she, 'The man hath penance done, And penance more will do_." He ceased rowing and took one of her hands in his.

Reverently, he brought it up so that it rested just below his lip. Turning her palm open and upward, Meg gasped as she felt the moist air of his breath and bottom lip just graze the center of her palm. He closed her palm, and Meg was shocked to feel something cool resting in its center. Squinting, she held it up to what little light reflected from the boat lamp on the water, and gasped in shocked surprise.

It was a finely cut emerald…as big as her thumb!

"Erik!" she rasped. "I cannot take this." She made to give it back, rocking the boat a little as she made her way closer to him. She aimed for the pocket on his lapel. Both his hands clasped hers and gently but firmly brought them to her lap.

"You will, Megan. And you will use it to do whatever it is you would like to do. Or I can have it set, and you may wear it proudly. It is yours."

She shook her head, clutching the stone tight in her fist. "I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing. It is no less than you deserve. However, you never did answer my question." Meg felt the bottom of the boat drag along the shore, and then they were alighting, and she was still being carried by him into his home. He sat her down on the sofa and lit a fire in the grate. He left the room momentarily, and Meg took a moment to look around. It was a bit of organized chaos. The Phantom's many and varied interests were strewn throughout the room. The violin he had played was resting propped against a table. Sheet music was everywhere as were books in several different languages.

He returned bearing a tray that held an assortment of cloths, vials, a kettle and a mug. She looked up at him in question. "For your throat, my dear." She watched as he prepared the herbed tea concoction, stirring in the slightest trace of honey. And then he handed it to her, urging her to drink while he prepared one of the cloths with water. She sipped and noticed that his hands were bare. They were pale, long-fingered, and they moved gracefully as he began to mix some powder and salve together.

Turning to her, he knelt in front of her and held the cloth up to her throat expectantly. Meg looked into his eyes, eyes filled with abject apology. And maintaining eye contact, she bared her injured throat for him to tend, closing her eyes at the first brush of the cloth. "In answer to your question" she mumbled, "I have a retreat inside my head I go to when the world becomes too much." Her voice was less hoarse, but it still sounded rough in the silence.

"And where did you go, my Megan?" His tone was hushed, and Meg shivered at the cool sensation of his fingers working the mint-infused salve into her abraded skin.

"I was dancing for Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake." she replied absently, "The part of Odette, though tragic, has always appealed to me." His hands began to gently massage. "The both of them, ill-fated, yet still managing to surpass death and be together forever. It's beautiful." She sighed as the salve began to tingle and gently warm her neck. He kept his hand there, rubbing occasionally, warming it. With his other hand, he began to wrap her neck in a thin cloth bandage. Feeling his fingers on her chin, she opened her eyes and met his very direct gaze.

"And do you do this often, _ptichka_? Escape into your head?" She bit her lip. His eyes held kindness and concern. His hands still held her throat, warming it with his heat and occasionally massaging it.

"I used to when I was much younger. When father was still alive. He and maman would have horrible arguments sometimes. I would hide away and imagine myself far away, living in the fairytale stories maman would tell me at night."

She thought she saw him smile softly, but she couldn't be sure because of the mask. She suddenly felt a deep loathing for the cursed thing. "I too have a mental retreat. But mine is in music. Come, I have prepared dinner for us both, and we need to discuss our collaboration. That is, if you are still interested in such a thing?" His tone was confident, but his eyes held uncertainty. And Meg was sure he was holding his breath waiting for her response.

She lifted her hand slowly up to his masked face, and her heart ached to see him flinch the slightest bit. With deliberate slowness, she drew her hand until it rested just under his cheek where his mask parted to reveal flesh. He gasped as he felt the pressure, his eyes widening. "I hated seeing that behavior from you, Erik. What you did, it is inexcusable." His eyes lowered, but she lifted his chin until they met hers once more. "But I don't expect it to be repeated. _No matter what_."

Her eyebrows lifted, and he spoke softly, "You have my word, Megan." Bending her head slightly, Meg drew close until only a breath stood between his lips and hers. Gently, sweetly, she kissed his bottom lip, feeling the cool sterility of his mask hit her top one. He gasped and didn't move. He didn't breathe.

And Meg held there, a gentle pressure for one beat then two. And then she felt his hands at her neck begin to tremble, and slowly she pulled back and looked into his eyes once more.

"There now. A bargain sealed with a kiss is irrevocable." She smiled tremulously waiting for his reaction. A full minute passed before he even blinked. "…Erik? … … …Erik?" Meg waved her hand in front of his eyes, and finally, finally he came back to her with a start, one of his shaking hands slowly moving to cover his lip.

Me g smiled, "I don't know about you, maestro, but I am hungry. You mentioned dinner?" She looked at him expectantly and made to rise. His hands were immediately at her side assisting her.

"Tell me, Megan, would you be free tomorrow night to attend a production?" Meg smiled her thanks as he led her to his dining nook and held out her chair. Tomorrow being Monday, a performance was not scheduled. Her mother would expect her help with their weekly errands and chores. Not to mention practice.

But if she got up early…

"I suppose I could get away." Situating herself at the table, Meg's mind was already thinking of what she could tell her mother in order to make her excuses. Cousin Adele always expected her to pop in. Perhaps she could use her as an excuse to be gone?

"How long would we away?" She took a bite of the cold chicken that she knew they were to be serving upstairs, and she smiled. All of the food had been pilfered from the opera kitchens from above.

"Tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock. I will arrive outside your rooms." Meg nodded and took a sip of her wine, noticing her throat felt almost fully recovered. Absently, she touched the cloth bandages.

"Nuh-uh-uh. Don't touch. Not for another few minutes at least." He drew her hand away from her throat, but whenever he would have pulled back, she held on and smiled, setting their joined hands on the table between them. After a beat, they resumed eating once more; her thumb sweeping occasionally across his index finger; his middle finger drawing circles in her palm.

She smiled up at him, feeling keen anticipation fill her core, "So tell me, Erik. What is this new ballet, and is the score complete?"

He wiped the bottom of his lip with his cloth napkin and drank some wine, "hmm…yes. The score is nearly finished. I will need to make adjustments though for the dancing of course. Would you like to hear it?"

Meg nodded eagerly, tossing her napkin on the table and making to stand. His eyes were filled with humor as he stayed her with the pressure of his hand in hers. "Sit, finish _ptichka_, we have time, and you need to eat more. You are almost skin and bones as it is."

She looked at him and raised a lone blond eyebrow as she gestured between the two of them, "Pot-kettle black, Erik. Besides, I can't eat too much or Henri will begin to complain of back trouble when we _pax de deux_." She did take another sip of wine, however, and looked up at him questioningly, "You keep calling me that—chich-ka? …pitch-ka? …errm, what is it?"

His hand resumed its drawing of gentle circles in her palm. "It is Russian for 'little bird'. I thought it fitting in light of recent events." His eyes definitely held a measure of warmth when they met hers, and Meg felt a delicate blush begin to stain her cheeks. "Since it appears you are finished" his Voice was laced with dry humor, "are you ready to listen?" She nodded eagerly, and he rose, pulling out her chair for her and helping her to stand. "Then come my dear, and listen to my version of the Andersen tale 'The Red Shoes'."

Meg gasped and clapped enthusiastically. "Oh, that is my favorite!" She couldn't help from teasing him as she winked, "You should know, maestro, I have very high expectations for its portrayal."

He seated her on the organ bench and bowing, kissed her hand, "I would expect nothing less, _ptichka_. Nothing less." Meg watched as he gathered up his violin. Without further adieu, he began to play, and Meg was at once transported to a marketplace square where a foolish young girl begs her gentleman to buy her the red shoes.

Through the beauty of his music, Meg could picture it: the curiosity, the wonder of seeing and wanting the shoes on her feet. With the shoes, she would _be_ someone, she would be the most beautiful and the most graceful of girls—and how she would dance! But there were sinister notes pervading the music as well as the cobbler made his entrance, and Meg could picture Henri as the wicked cobbler, persuading her to buy the cursed shoes.

The music shifted and Meg could picture the carnival atmosphere—the girl, gay and merry, dancing her way through the scenery, wanting to explore and savor every bit. She would be the life of the party, the center of attention. No other girl would even come close to her beauty, elegance, or gaiety. And all the while, there were sinister, discordant shrill undertones throughout, reminding the audience that this was no happy tale.

And then the music shifted again as the girl began to make her way home after a wonderful night of fun and frivolity. The girl would be tired, exhausted, and ready for bed. Home. Sweet relief was in sight. But… one shrill note from the violin, and she was compelled to keep dancing; her feet moving frantically as she tried to make it to her door, to her mother and to her bed. Another shrill note and the wicked cobbler appears. He smiles cruelly and gestures to her shoes. She realizes in horror that she must keep dancing—she will never stop dancing— while she wears the red shoes for they are cursed.

The music Erik was playing reached a frenetic pace, and Meg's heart began to beat wildly. She could just imagine it: the girl, obviously reluctant, compelled to dance. Already so weary, and yet, she must _still_ dance—all through the night, and then through the days, weeks, and months that pass by in a blur. And still she dances; the music a malevolent accompaniment to her plight, sometimes mocking, sometimes soothing. But always the shoes compel an irresistibly challenging beat.

The girl, surrounded by horrors both beauteous and grotesque, is led from macabre curiosity to curiosity, left to wander alone— always alone.

And then his music shifted once more, and it was holy: a funeral dirge. And Meg could visualize her scorned suitor refusing to aid her, turning her away. And the music was incredibly sad, so poignant, Meg began to weep softly. The exhausted girl who had coveted the shoes was dying, right in her scorned suitor's embrace. The cautionary tale a tragedy and warning for those that would seek to appease their vanity and selfishness in worldly vice. With a final pleading note from the violin, the piece was completed, and Erik was staring at her expectantly awaiting her response.

And Meg…Meg was speechless.

She blotted away the tears with the handkerchief he had given her earlier, and then she was on her feet, launching herself towards him and hugging him fiercely.

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Erik looked down at the arm-full of female he had clinging to him and swallowed. His Voice came out hesitant, unsure, "so, I take it you like it then mademoiselle?"

He heard her give a choked laugh as she looked up at him incredulously, "Like? _LIKE?_ Such an insipid little word, Erik, for the talent you've shown. Oh, maestro, it was brilliant! And I cannot wait to begin planning the steps! I could see it! See it all in my head." He saw her look past him, tilting her head and squinting into the distance, "The role will be challenging to be sure, but oh! It will take Paris by storm!"

She let go of him as quickly as she had grabbed him and began to outline steps. In amused wonder, he watched for a time, seating himself on the organ bench and playing snippets of the piece. "And of course Jacques would have to be the scorned suitor. His _gran fillipes_ would be divine." She mumbled to herself as she proceeded to dance the part she envisioned. Erik recognized the look of creation, the look of possibility, she held. His music had inspired it. _He_ had inspired _her_.

He let her zeal continue for a few minutes more, but absently, he noted the time was drawing late. He put down his violin but on she danced, oblivious. The irony of this did not escape him. Quietly, he crept up behind her and held her waist gently. "Megan."

"Hmm?" She looked up distractedly, just noticing where his hands rested.

"It grows late, _ptitchka_. And we have a long day tomorrow."

She turned around in his arms and looked at him plaintively. "Oh, but—"

He placed his finger on her lips to hush her protests, "There will be time, my impatient one. There will be time." Her eyes grew slightly rounded, and she swallowed, moistening her bottom lip with the pad of her tongue, and Erik drew a quick breath as her tongue met the pad of his finger.

He drew his hand back quickly and turned away. "Come. I must escort you above." He quickly donned his cloak and hat, turning back to her, and just managing to catch the look of disappointment before she masked it with a small smile. Putting on his gloves once more, he held out his arm to her, "Shall we, Miss Giry?" This time, he knew he wasn't imagining the injured look of disappointment, but gamely, she lifted her chin, and placing her arm lightly atop his, allowed him to lead her to the boat and above.

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Meg left him in the second cellar, watching as he made his way below once more. Yes, she was disappointed he hadn't tried to kiss her. But really? What did she expect?

He was in love with Christine, not her, and she needed to remember that fact, no matter how much his Voice quickened her blood, and his music fired her soul.

They were business partners only, and she should not, for one moment, forget this fact.

Absently, she looked at her reflection in the mirror, just remembering the bandages on her throat. She slowly began to unwind them, and then gasped as she studied her mirror's reflection. Her neck was perfectly white, unmarred; the scratches and bruising from earlier were non-existent. She looked back at the passage from which he'd left her only moments before.

And Meg wondered yet again for what must be the thousandth time just who _was_ the Phantom of the Opera?

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*A/N: I played fast and loose with some lines from Coleridge's _The Rime of The Ancient Mariner _in this part. Those of you who got the reference, give yourself kudos! Those who didn't, your missin' out on some fine lit'.

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**review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is most welcome.**


	4. Part IV

One Good Turn part IV

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Erik waited patiently for Megan to emerge from the rooms she shared with Antoinette. And he spent his time, as he spent most of the night and a good part of the day, contemplating the mystery that was Marguerite Giry.

She had kissed him—_him_!

She had bestowed upon him his _first_ _ever_ _kiss_! And she did so completely unaware; no artifice or understanding from her at all. And this had shocked him… had scared him. His feelings for her could not be borne. He had given his heart, his art, his _soul_ to another.

He thought he had nothing left.

And he had almost strangled the life out of her! Erik was not exaggerating when he spoke of having momentarily lost his sanity. He honestly could not remember throwing the lasso. But throw it he did, and he had brought the girl to her knees before him.

Thinking back, his eyes closed at just how close she had come to dying by his hand, and again, he paled at the memory. Just one slight tug of his wrist, and she would have—

But then, after it all, she had forgiven him; had verbally matched him quote for quote and had forgiven him! The memory of that moment stirred his blood, and he drew a calming breath to rein in the emotions provoked. And then there she sat, that little slip of a woman, and she had leaned down, pressing her primrose pink and perfect lips to his own grotesque face—a face she knew—_KNEW_—looked like the face of a demon's beneath the mask!—and she had kissed him—KISSED HIM!

And then she had gone on as if nothing, no fundamental change, had occurred.

And for her, perhaps this was true.

As he waited, the words to a poem by Robert Browning came to mind: '_such stuff was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough for calling up that spot of joy_.' And Erik drew a vicious parallel between his own situation and that of the murderous duke's. Was it all a game to her then? He felt himself beginning to get angry and had to take measured breaths in order to steady himself once more.

It was early days yet, and she was very young—too young for him really—even though she was older than Christine by a year or more. And she had yet to have her first sip of what the world held in store for her.

_But was that right? _

Erik blinked as he realized he was doing Miss Megan Giry a grave injustice by discounting her in such a way. She had been attacked, at least once of which he knew, and she had killed a man.

Just then, the object of his musings appeared dressed in her spring green travelling cloak, hat, and mantle, and making sure the way was clear, he pressed the notch on the hall passage to allow her entry.

His thoughts dispelled like startled birds as he took her gloved hand in his and placed it firmly on his arm, "Are you ready to go, Miss Giry?"

Erik could see her in the darkness, staring up at him with a mild look of irritation couched in a glimmer of amusement. "So formal, Opera Ghost. Have we reverted back to our titles then?" Her eyebrows drew up in expectation, awaiting his response.

He knew he was going to have trouble keeping his distance from her; he felt his resolve already beginning to crumble away. He led them further down to the passageways where Caesar was kept. "No, Miss Giry—" he heard her drawn in a breath, "—we are not. It is just— I should not take such liberties, and you should not permit them. You are a young woman unchaperoned—"

"And does propriety and my reputation concern you overly much, Opera Ghost?" There was no doubt about it, the girl was teasing him. Erik studied her in the darkness. The little hoyden was grinning cheekily up at where he stood.

His heartbeat quickened, and he swallowed thickly. "It should—it does. Yes, Miss Giry, it _does_ very much."

That time, she did laugh outright. "Erik, please, we are friends are we not? And business partners of a sort. There is nothing _improper_ about our association." She made the word 'improper' sound a profanity. "If you are having second thoughts about taking me along, maestro, just say so, and I will return above." Erik detected a faint note of reluctant sadness in her voice. His other hand unconsciously moved atop hers where it rested on his arm, and he held her bound to him.

"No—I believe this evening to be an educational one for our little endeavor." Her faint exhalation of relief was just detectable past the susurrations of the lake.

"And just where are we endeavoring to go?" He had lighted a lamp near Caesar's stable earlier that evening and had no trouble making out her curious stare in the shallow lamp light. After situating her inside, he readied the cabriolet for their venture, inspecting it thoroughly.

Absently he replied as he led and tethered Caesar to the reins, "We are going to attend a new form of entertainment in the Montmartre district called _cabaret_. _La Chat Noir_ is an establishment that showcases the newest and freshest talent that Paris has to offer, and I have had my eye on one or two musicians there for a while now." He swung gracefully into the cab, and taking up the reins, clucked softly, and they were off.

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As they were leaving the club, Meg noted the temperature had plummeted drastically, and she drew closer to her masked escort to share in his warmth, her breath coming in white puffs before her.

But never could she remember having spent such an entertaining evening!

At first, Meg was worried when Erik led her openly into the club, getting a table quite near the orchestra pit. But he had drawn the hood of his cloak and hers over their heads upon exiting the cab. And then Meg had taken a look around. Nearly all the denizens of the establishment were wearing a concealing item of clothing or another to shield their faces from view. Some women were even in masks! She slanted her eyes at her own personal masked man.

Was this place really so scandalous as to warrant that?!

And then the music began, and Meg smiled and laughed as the Master of Ceremonies proceeded to cause each and every woman in the room to blush, and even some gentlemen as well. She had never heard such talk! And this coming from a ballet rat! She looked over at Erik. He was watching her, an expression of amusement reflecting in his yellow eyes, and his mouth held a small smirk.

She blushed harder as two of the girls, both dressed very scantily, proceeded to get up on stage with the MC and sing a song about a _ménage a trois_! She heard him whisper in her ear, _Blush any brighter, _ptitchka_, and you will be mistaken for a stage lamp._ She looked over at him. He had not moved from his position to her left, and he was a good foot away from her in distance. And yet, she had heard his Voice as if he were speaking intimately to her, whispering directly in her ear. She shivered and ducked her head, and his soft and knowing laughter caressed her senses even as his gloved hand reached to draw her chin back up to watch the rest of the show.

Her heartbeat thudded and remained heavy as she watched, seeing the gratuitous displays before her, but her awareness was solely centered on the man to her left.

And it seemed his attention was centered on her every bit as much as his surroundings, and rare were the moments when she didn't feel his eyes upon her. And so, the show ended with a grandly scandalous bang, and even as Meg looked around at the crowd dispersing for the night, a light rain began to mist and fall.

It really was outlandishly late or ungodly early—however which way one chose to look at it, and only the streetlamps lit their way as Erik quickly ushered her to the cab and situated her inside. A moment later, he leapt in as well and they began the return journey home through the abandoned streets of Paris.

"Well, what are your thoughts, little Giry?" There was much amusement lacing his tone, and Meg knew he was having fun at her expense for having taken her to see the lurid display.

She sniffed, propelling her nose high in the air, "Now I can see why you were so worried about my reputation, Erik. Good Grief! If anyone were to have recognized me in there, I would be working the street faster than you could say 'two-franc strumpet'. Hmm…" she assumed an air of thoughtfulness, "Although… with what I learned tonight, I might be able to pull down three." His gale of surprised laughter filled the cab with its merry sound, and she continued on, "At any rate, this does bring me to another question. Just how did you direct your Voice so that it sounded in my ear as you did when you were seated so far away and the orchestra so loud?"

_You mean like this?_ Meg whipped her head around to her shoulder: the one not facing him and then turned back to look at him. He hadn't moved. _Or this?_ This time, she looked up into the cab overhang. _Or even this?_ Meg felt his Voice surround her, coming from all directions. It was very—well, intimidating…as well as …arousing. She bit her lip.

_It is all to do, Megan, with the power of the belly. Ventriloquism it is called. _His Voice sounded right in her ear, as intimate as any whisper. Meg looked over at him. And through the weak streetlamps as he spoke, she could just make out his throat working to make the noise. His bottom lip never even moved, and his eyes were trained on the road.

"Do it again!" Meg pleaded, squinting her eyes in the darkness to watch him, absently registering as the rain began fall harder still.

_Shall I tell you of the plans I have for the opera house, Megan? Nearly all of the se_— his Voice was cut off by a grinding crack in the wheel. And suddenly the cabriolet was listing on its side, and Erik was grabbing for and holding her steady as the assembly broke free, overturning them.

Had he not held her, she would have been crushed in the ensuing melee. Caesar reared, nearly trampling the entire cab completely, and the only thing that stopped him from doing so was Erik's steady pressure of his hand on the reins and his reassuring tone of Voice as he spoke to the animal, calming him.

Throughout the entire ordeal, he never let go of her, his other arm around her, holding her close to him and keeping her away from the crushing impact of the wet ground, sharp metal, and splintered wood. When Caesar was once more calm, he looked down at her. "Are you injured, Megan?" Meg was in shock; she tried to answer him, repeatedly she did, but no sound would emerge. "Megan?" His hand that wasn't clutching her to him began running over every part of her he could reach. Meanwhile, he kept up a chanting litany of her name, begging for a response.

Meg swallowed and taking a deep breath, tried to speak, "I—I'm… fine, …Er-Erik. Just c-cold, I th-think." He reached for her wrist, counting, and she saw his eyes widen as Meg began to pant, feeling light-headed. Beads of sweat began to dot her forehead.

"Hold on, _ptitchka_, I'm going to get us out of here." He put her hands around his neck, and Meg was stunned to realize she couldn't help him; she could not will her body to move. What was happening to her?

She began to panic, her breathing coming on faster, making her even more light-headed and dizzy. With a mighty heave, Erik climbed the wreckage with her in tow and they were freed. He stood there holding her in the pouring rain, and quickly, he carried her to a nearby stable that was all but deserted at this late hour. He laid her gently on a bed of clean straw and began his inspection of her person once more, examining at length her fingers, torso, head, and legs.

Meg's breathing continued to come in quick gasps even as he urged her to slow it down, try to calm. She had never felt this cold in her entire life! He left her and returned with Caesar as well as a pile of smelly, but dry, horse blankets that he tossed next to her. She heard him explain that she was having a medical episode, but she was afraid she couldn't make much sense of anything else.

She thought she also heard him mutter "propriety be damned" but she couldn't be sure. And then she felt a tug as her cloak was removed, and then another tug on the back of her dress and the soaking wet garment was removed as well, causing her to shiver more. And then there was a pull on her stays, and her corset too was removed, leaving her only in her slightly damp chemise. Absently, she registered she could breathe a bit better. He then removed her shoes and then her tights as well, and Meg felt herself growing still and numb with cold.

Absently, she catalogued she no longer felt cold, she felt free and feather-light. "No, No! Megan, you must stay with me! Don't you dare lose consciousness, _ptitchka_!"

She watched from far away as he began covering her with blankets and elevating her legs so they rested above the level of her head. He pleaded, "Come back to me, my little bird. Come back to your Erik." She began to shiver again. "That's right, my dear. That's right. Good girl. Let the shivers run their course."

She watched as he removed his cloak, and then he was atop the blankets, lying next to her, his damp cloak thrown over them both as he used his body weight and heat to add to her warmth. "Megan, can you hear me? …Megan?" She nodded slightly in the near perfect darkness, and he breathed a relieved sigh. "I need you to try and follow my breathing. Can you do that for me, little bird? hmm?" And slowly, he began to count. In…two…three…four…Out…two…three…four… and he repeated this sequence until her breathing began to match his own.

He reached under the blanket and felt for her wrist at her side.

And a moment later, the breath of relief that he gave was palpable. "Your pulse is almost back to normal, my dear, as is your breathing. Tell me, do you feel better?"

Meg closed her eyes and nodded slightly. "Good." She didn't have to look at him to know he was smiling. "We shall rest here for an hour but no more. The longer we do so, the greater our chances of being discovered. And hopefully, the rain will have abated by then."

Just then a crack of thunder sounded, and Meg jumped.

She felt his arms come around her and draw her close, and she registered the sensations of being itchy and smelly but warm. "Hush, now. It's only a spring storm. You are now quite safe, I assure you." His Voice was coming from right next to her ear, and turning her head slightly, Meg registered that his masked face was just below hers, his head almost, but not quite, resting on her shoulder. She felt his warm breath on her neck, and it only served as a reminder of just how undressed she was beneath the layers of cloak, male, and smelly blanket.

Turning slightly, she drew her head down until it rested near his, until she was laying on his bony shoulder, breathing in his masculine scent rather than the barn smells of damp horse and fresh manure. And she felt his hold of her tighten slightly as he adjusted to her new position. Turning slightly more, she insinuated herself until her lips and nose were pressed to the bit of bared flesh of his neck between his collar and the mask. She heard him give a sharp gasp, and she snuggled even more, breathing in deeply.

And thusly, Meg drifted to sleep.

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Erik couldn't believe how close he'd come to losing her; first in the wreckage of the cab and then through psychogenic shock. Her warm breath fanned lightly on his neck causing him to involuntarily shiver. Mentally, he catalogued the curious sensation even as he calmed his body from the response she was eliciting within him.

What a dear bit of baggage, and she had almost died!

He drew a deep breath, breathing in her scent beneath the layer of manure and smelly blanket. She could not put her dress back on; it was soaked through. But she would be alright.

He would take her below and put her in the Louis Philip for the night.

Hearing the rain begin to lessen, Erik knew now was the time to act, and with luck, she wouldn't awaken. Carefully, so very carefully, he began to disentangle himself from her. He appropriated a saddle and set Caesar to bit and bridal. And then discarding the blankets and stowing her dress, bundled Megan in her cloak and then his own. So very carefully and gently he picked her up and sat her atop the horse. And then he leapt up behind her, his arms coming around her holding her closer to him.

After drawing the reins, he looked down, she was watching him quietly, her face buried in the cloaked material, her eyes solemnly peeking out. She closed her eyes and leaned back against his chest, and he swallowed, his heart suddenly in his throat.

With a cluck of his tongue, Caesar began to trot, and Erik felt her body sway against his, absently registering the feeling of being so near another, a young woman at that.

Like so many encounters with Megan, this night had been extraordinary in its number of firsts. And Erik replayed each and every one of them in his mind's eye as he savored the sensation of holding a living woman in his arms. Never mind that she was oblivious to it all. That did not matter.

What did matter was that he held her—she trusted him to hold and care for her—and again, that peculiar feeling in his chest and throat occurred, and he had to swallow it back. He did not examine the feeling too closely; it was wholly foreign and unfamiliar. But it left him warm in the cold night, and it came as some surprise when they had arrived at the stable where Caesar was kept.

Alighted deftly, he drew her down in his arms once more. Once he got her situated, he would return and care for Caesar; the old man had certainly earned his oats this night. "You're carrying me again." Erik looked down to see her eyes once more watching him steadily beneath the many folds of cloak. She looked exhausted but very much alert.

"Why ruin a good habit, my dear?" he rejoined, making his way deep into the passageways.

"You'll throw out your back." This stated chidingly from the darkness.

"You worry needlessly, Megan. Your weight is slight, and to carry you is no burden." He proceeded to show her that he could indeed do so one-handed if necessary.

"How did you come to be so strong?" There was a bit of wonder and awe in her voice, and the very masculine part of Erik preened at the praise.

"Plenty of hard work, blood, sweat, and tears, Megan." He fed her own words back to her and felt her stiffen slightly in his hold.

"I tell people the truth, and they don't believe, Erik."

"Yes, and _I_ am telling you the truth. Will _you_ believe me, _ptitchka_?" His Voice was laced with humor. She grew more pliant in his hold.

"Well, you could at least tell me how you learned some of the things you've learned. I think I counted at least four different languages when I had a look at the books in your study. Can you speak them all fluently?"

"Vy , moya ptichka , daleki k lyuboznatel'nym vdvoye. Wǒ huì hěn lèyì fēnxiǎng wǒ de zhīshì. Das ist, wenn Sie ein Talent dafür zu zeigen? Ma anche se non lo fai, posso ancora rivelare a voi che siete un bel po 'di bagagli da per me tengo tra le mie braccia." *

He felt her shift and knew she was trying to peer through the darkness up at him. Her eyes were round with wonder. "What did you say?"

"I said that if you had a talent for assimilating language, I would teach you to do so."

"Really? Oh, that would be wonderful! I've always wanted to learn another language." She tilted her head, "Russian perhaps? After all, Tchaikovsky was Russian, and I've always wanted to go to Moscow." Her excitement was a tangible thing, and Erik smiled in the darkness. He turned a corner, and the lake was once more before them.

"Megan—"Erik was hesitant to voice his decision to have her stay the night in his quarters, but he wouldn't want to abduct her. His Voice filled with uncertainty, he stated, "I would like for you to stay as a guest in my quarters tonight." Was it his imagination or did he just feel her relax slightly in his hold? Your condition needs to be monitored, and it is late—far too late for you to return to your own quarters at risk of waking your mother."

He saw her smile gently in the darkness, "I have a confession, Erik. I told my mother I was staying with my Cousin Adele for the night because I did not know how late we would be in getting back. I had planned to sleep in one of the dormitories upstairs and return in the early afternoon."

Unconsciously, Erik pulled her closer to him, "Well then, it is a fait accompli." He loaded her once more into the boat and punting, made his way home. He was unsurprised to see that she had dozed off once more on the journey there.

As he unwrapped her from the cloaks and placed her in the Louis Phillipe, she looked up, and smiling, brought a hand to his masked cheek, "I reek of horse blanket, fear, and sweat, Erik, and I would really like a bath."

He placed his hand over her own and held it tight. "Tomorrow, _ptitchka_. Tomorrow. For now, you need sleep." And Erik hummed a little string of the melody he had composed with her in mind and watched in satisfaction as her eyes drifted shut and she relaxed once more, succumbing to the healing powers of rest.

After returning from tending Caesar, he sat by her bedside and watched her until the candle at her bedside gutted low and then went out. And finally, he permitted himself to rest, for a moment only he told himself, with her at his side.

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A/N: _**Just what did Erik say?!**_ ***Russian:** "You, my little bird, are far too inquisitive by half. **Mandarin:** And I would be happy to share my knowledge. **German:**That is if you show a talent for it? **Italian:** But even if you do not, I can still reveal to you that you are a beautiful bit of baggage for me to hold in my arms."

I trusted Google translate—blame them if it's wrong—and if it is, please let the authoress know ;-)

Also, I borrowed a wee dram a' poetry from Robert Browning's _My Last Duchess_—a truly scintillating read if ever there was one. I like my Erik to be a smidge malevolent in his possession and desire, and I think this poem would appeal to him greatly as pertaining to our little ballerina. What say you fare reader?

**review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is most welcome.**


	5. Part V

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Readers, I spoil you with my updates. Please take the time to spoil me and leave a review in the alms box.

Kind regards,

_**DGM**_

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One Good Turn part V

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Meg awoke blearily to unrelieved darkness. For a moment, her heartbeat sped up, and she couldn't remember where she was. But then it all came back to her— the visit to the cabaret, the wreck of the cabriolet, and then her illness. And throughout it all, the baseline constant had been Erik: teasing her, protecting her, caring for her. Her heartbeat quickened as she remembered his tender ministrations last night.

She was almost positive it was now morning, although she couldn't be certain seeing as how it was so incredibly dark here in his subterranean home. The pressing need of her bladder interrupted her musings, and quietly, Meg slipped out of bed, her bare feet padding on the cold stone, trying to remember where she was in relation to the door.

She had no idea where Erik had gone, but she sincerely hoped not to disturb him overly much. After all, it had been a long and harrowing night for them both, and he struck her as a man that did not get enough rest as it was.

Slowly, she inched her way along the floor groping blindly for the handle.

Instead, she tripped over a pair of legs crossed length-wise in her path. And she gasped even as a pair of arms shot out to catch her as she fell. It was perhaps quite fortunate that he did indeed manage to catch her before she hit the ground, but his hands—well, they had caught her around her midsection, and she ended up sprawled atop him, facing away from him with one of his hands palming her breast and the other holding her torso.

Both were breathing heavily. One beat passed. Then two.

And still neither moved.

Meg's face began to burn with embarrassment. For Christ's sakes, she was only dressed in her chemise!

"Are you quite alright, Miss Giry?" His Voice was calm although she could feel his shallow breaths through the rise and fall of his chest behind her. Still he held her; the both of them fully aware of every inch of contact his bare hands had on her scantily-clad and rounded flesh.

Meg swallowed and licked her suddenly dry lips. "Ye—yes. I'm fine, Erik." Her nipple began to harden, the pearlescent tip pressing insistently into the pads of his fingers, and she heard him draw a sharp breath. Suddenly, he released her as if she burned him, and she scrabbled for purchase, almost ending up in the floor once more.

Absently, she registered a firming hardness beneath her as she moved even as she was being bodily hoisted away from him and set to rights. An instant later, she felt him grab her hand, with a little more force than necessary, and lead her back to the bed.

"Stay. Right. Here." His tone brooked no refusal, and it did not occur to Meg to disobey.

Oh, but her body felt afire! Was this it then? Was this what desire felt like? My God!

An instant later, a bundle of cloth was unceremoniously dumped beside her. "Put those on and meet me in the study. I am taking you above." He sounded angry…no worse than…he sounded absolutely livid.

But why?

Unless…He couldn't think she had intentionally set out to do that, could he?!

Meg's cheeks burned with embarrassment and shame. Oh what he must think of her!

Quickly, she donned her corset and tights; for once glad it was so dark so the light couldn't bear witness her shame. And then she put on her still slightly damp dress and shoes and fumbled for the door, coming out into the study once more to see that he had lit a gas lamp. She took stock of his appearance. He was dressed completely, including hat and gloves. All of his exposed flesh covered in shades of black.

She could read nothing in his eyes; no warmth, nor anger. He was calm, blank, returning her inquiring stare with an impenetrable mask of aloofness. And Meg found she did not care for this new façade at all even as she drew herself up to counter it with one of her own.

"I am ready when you are, monsieur." Butter wouldn't have melted on her tongue.

She saw him nod slightly, and not deigning to offer her his arm, he led her to the boat, and they silently, excruciatingly, made their way over to the other shore. Every second spent in his presence seemed interminable and Meg began drawing slow, measured breaths, feeling the unrelieved tension snap and arc between them.

Still, neither one of them said a thing as they made their way through the passageways.

He had thought to bring a lamp this time, and Meg chided herself for her feelings of disappointment because that meant she couldn't rely on him to guide her. But even as she formed the thought, her dress caught on one of the loose stones, and she stumbled slightly.

Instantly, she felt his hands at her waist steadying her even as his Voice rang out breaking the silence between them like a hammer to a pane of glass, "Are you quite certain, mademoiselle that being a ballerina is the right profession for you to undertake?" Meg's eyes snapped fire at him, even as his filled with scorn. "As of late, you have and are showing an appalling lack of grace for one that has such hopes of being _Prima Ballerina Absoluta_."

Meg broke away from his hold, and keeping her silence lest she say something she absolutely would regret, she grand-fully gestured that he should lead them on. He did so, turning his caped back to her and stalking down the corridor, and she rolled her eyes skyward. Not only was she now considered slatternly in his eyes, she was also disgraceful to boot.

Without further adieu, he led her to one of the empty opera dormitories, and all but throwing open the door, shoved her through. And then he was gone and the wall was whole and seamless once more. Meg looked around the room and blinked.

Just what the hell had happened?!

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"Meg this is the fifth time the Baron has asked you to dinner. You absolutely cannot refuse him!" Jammes was at her side, taking off her stage makeup while Meg changed into her gray evening dress. She watched as Jammes narrowed her eyes, "Just why are you refusing him, Marguerite Giry?"

"Yes, why indeed? He's handsome!" smiled Laure lei.

"And titled!" stated Tanya.

"And rich!" Genevieve smiled like a cat that lapped up the cream, and then looked at her knowingly, "Not to mention he fucks like he invented the sport!"

"Genevieve!" Meg couldn't hide her blush as several of the girls—all of them blond—tittered in agreement. The rest looked on with envy.

"_WHAT_?! There is absolutely no reason whatsoever for you to tell him no, Giry! No reason at all. Unless…" she looked at her assessing, "Why Meg Giry, are you holding a candle for someone else?" All of the girls surrounded her, and Meg began to feel like a seal amidst a school of hungry sharks.

"N-no. Nothing like that; it's just—" Meg broke away from them and began to plait her hair.

"Just what then?" Genevieve had followed her, taking over the task.

"I-he bores me, that's all." Inwardly, Meg gave a wince. She was telling the truth; the Baron's presence and conversation did bore her, and she found him to be quite insipid.

Genevieve laughed, "Bores you? Methinks your standards are a mite too high for a ballet rat, Marguerite." She tugged viciously on one of Meg's tresses, and Meg gave a wince. "He is exciting, and this could be your chance, Meg."

"I wish it were my chance!" Little Jammes did a twirl with her hairbrush, "I wouldn't think twice."

Meg watched as Genevieve swatted playfully at Jammes bottom with the paddle brush, "Not gonna happen, Jammes." She waggled her eyebrows suggestively at Meg, and Meg felt another blush steel over her features. "The gentleman prefers blondes."

A knock on the door had the rats scurrying to ready themselves for their admirers. Genevieve gave another pat to Meg's hair and then nodded to Laure Lei to open the door. The first one through was the Baron, walking up to Meg and presenting her with an outrageously expensive and gaudy bouquet of blue hydrangea blossoms couched in a bed of red lobelia.

Meg inwardly smirked to herself. She wondered if he knew that in the language of flowers, he had given her a bouquet symbolizing heartlessness couched in a bed of malevolence. But she didn't think the Baron was the type to study or understand that particular discourse.

"Frauline, you danced most divinely." He stated in heavily accented French laced with German, and bowed over her hand, thrusting the flowers upon her. Meg tried not to sneeze. She had always been especially sensitive to the hydrangea blossom.

"Didn't she though, Baron Baltszak?" Genevieve took the arrangement from Meg and pushed her quite forcefully over to him. "Meg was just readying herself for your dinner engagement tonight, weren't you dear? In fact, she only needs to grab her cloak. There, Jammes." Meg paled as her cloak was thrust upon her by Jammes; the Baron himself taking and placing it around her shoulders. She looked around at the varied Judas's in the room, all of them looking at her smugly, and she shot them each murderous looks promising retribution.

"Wunderbar, frauline! I am so glad you are accepting of my offer!" The blond haired, blue eyed man smiled warmly, giving her an appreciative, assessing glance that had Meg wanting to leave the room posthaste. "I am sure ve vill have much to discuss over dinner."

"Indeed you shall." Genevieve all but shoved Meg into the Baron and then ushered them both out the dressing room door. "You two crazy kids have fun now, and Meg, don't do anything I wouldn't do." She gave them a saucy wink, and her knowing laughter followed them all the way down the hall and into the foyer.

"Such brashness from that vone." The Baron's eyes danced with knowing laughter, "Come mein liebling, our carriage avaits." Meg smiled faintly, seeking divine intervention from the heavens. She really—really—did not want to do this.

None was forthcoming, however, and it was with an inborn sigh that had her resigning herself to her fate. She allowed him to lead her out of the opera and into the night to one of the most exclusive restaurants in all of Paris.

Trying to tune out the relentless drone of his insipid conversation, Meg turned her thoughts instead to the masked man that had occupied so many of her waking and sleeping thoughts over the last few months.

She had seen neither hide nor hair of Erik in the five weeks since their nighttime misadventure.

Five weeks.

Five weeks of ballet practices and performances. Five weeks of trying to plan the steps to their joint production of _The Red Shoes_ but getting nowhere as her memory recall of the music was spotty at best from having heard it performed only once weeks of silence when she was certain she was being watched.

Sometimes, when she was alone, practicing either on the roof or in the second cellar—nowhere else now would do—she would address him, speak to him. Some sixth sense told her he was watching her, but he never said a word. And he was living up to his moniker as resident ghost for his silence was unrelenting.

As the days of silence had passed into weeks, Meg began to get very discouraged, as well as worried and angry. She had stopped trying to speak to him and instead focused on her performance—her art—getting as close to perfection as she could and pushing herself to the very limits of her endurance.

Her performances shown all the more for it and the talk of La Sorelli's retirement began to be eclipsed with rumors of Meg taking up the mantle of _Prima_ once the next season began.

She was overjoyed; hadn't this been what she worked so hard to accomplish?

Then why did it feel as if some integral part of her was missing?

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Erik watched Megan leave on the arm of that pompous pillock; another scapegraced son of lesser nobility.

Would he ever be free of them?!

In the five weeks since his self-imposed abstinence from Megan, he had vowed to himself that he would let her alone, let her live her life away from him. He would go his way, and she her own.

But every time he had almost convinced himself that this was right, that it was working, something, some little thought or action, would remind him of her: the way she would tease and laugh, the way she talked to him, the way she treated him— as one would a friend. Or he would stumble upon her practicing and get caught up, watching entranced as her body moved to the phantom beat of music, her movements lithe and graceful.

And he would stay watching for hours. And then he would get so angry at himself for having done so and so angry with her.

And nighttime. Nighttime, once so much a refuge, was the worst by far! For he no longer had to just imagine a woman's mouth, her breath, on him, for he could remember it; remember Megan's sweet lips pressed against his, her warm breath tickling the fine hairs at his nape as she in turn breathed in his scent.

The feel of her soft, young breast filling his palm and then pebbling.

Sweet Jesu! He had almost beat himself blind after that encounter. And still it wasn't enough! Would never be enough.

And she—she remained unaffected by it all—unaffected by him.

Granted, he had hardly given her a chance after the stumbling encounter in the dark, but that didn't matter did it? She had gone on, pretended nothing between them had occurred.

And now, she was leaving with that popinjay Baron, and Erik, well, he quite had enough of _her_ silence.

Stealthily, he made to follow.

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"—and then my youngest sister Lizabette is filled vith much eagerness to meet you. She is how to say… much enamored ever since she saw your performance last veek. You are practically all she speaks of. And she too has taken up the elegant art of ballet." The Baron's dishwater blue eyes graced her with a warm look, and Meg smiled blandly, taking a fortifying bite of Coq au Vin. "But I'm avraid she does not have your inborn grace or the talent." He shrugged and smiled sheepishly, "Tell me, Miss Giry, vould you be interested in having lunch vith me tomorrow at our chateau? You could meet vith Lizabette as vell as tour our gardens. I am told they are legendary."

Meg toyed with the stem of her wine glass, trying to buy herself some time. It was a warm night for mid-April, and they were dining al fresco beneath the many lanterns in a gardened terrace overlooking the river Seine. "Baron Baltszak—"

"Call me Erhard, mein liebling frauline." Meg hid her wince by taking a sip of wine.

"Umm…Baron Baltszak…" she stated determinedly, "your attentions are most flattering, but I… that is to say I…" Meg bit her lip. How the hell could she tell him her attraction to him was nonexistent?

_Just tell the fiend you are very much uninterested in his attentions, get up, and leave. _

Erik!

Meg's eyes went wide, and her pulse raced. A flush of warm pleasure filled her even as she chided herself for it being so. Surreptitiously, she looked around. Where could he be hiding?

_For God's sakes, ptichka, do not draw attention! I'm over near the tall shrubbery. Don't Look! Don't Look! Look at _him_, smile, and then gracefully decline his invitation, get up, and leave! _Meg's jaw tightened, the absolute _nerve_—the gall of the man! Five weeks of silence, and then he follows her here and dares to order her about!

Never mind that she didn't want to be here anyway. Never mind that the good Baron could be a bundle of rocks for all the attraction she felt for him.

Five weeks!

Her temper overrode her every other emotion as she replied sweetly, "Baron Baltszak—Erhard, I'd love to—!" Meg smiled dazzlingly up at the man even as she heard Erik's hiss of dismay. _No, my Megan. Don't do this thing._ _please_.

His Voice was broken, pleading with her. Dammit! She closed her eyes against him, against his pleas, and tried to immerse herself in the Baron's vacuous praise. "That's wunderbar, frauline! I vill be by to pick you up at—"

"—but I can't." The words were wrested from her as she realized just how unfair it would be to everyone involved should she proceed. Erik could do nothing but watch, and it would be torturous for him, especially if it was as she supposed, and he felt for her half of what she was feeling for him. It really would be like Christine all over again…

And it would be torture for her as well because she found the Baron's attentions to be trying and tedious at the best of times.

And too, it would be unfair to the Baron; leading him on like that would be most discourteous. "I—umm—that is to say, I cannot for I am involved in another engagement at present."

The Baron's congenial smile vanished to be replaced by a look of skepticism. "Just vhat are you trying to say, frauline?"

Meg swallowed, "I am currently seeing another gentleman, a composer for the Opera, and I couldn't possibly think of trifling with your affections when I am otherwise engaged." There, did that sound too revealing? too insulting?

"A composer? Trifling vith my… I am only asking for lunch and a tour of the gardens, mein liebling, not for your hand in matrimony. At least, not yet." The Baron smiled warmly once again, and going under the table, gently took her hand in his. "I vill pick you up after morning rehearsals—"

_Erik will gladly dispose of this rubbish for you, ptichka ; the man obviously does not know the meaning of the word 'NO'._ His tone sounded both murderous and smug, and was it her imagination or did the tall potted plant just move closer to the Baron's chair? "No-no! NO! I cannot go, Baron Baltszak, and that's final!" Meg gently but firmly removed her hand from his, and smiling tightly, stood. "I do thank you for a lovely dinner, but it grows late, and I must return."

The Baron stood as well, looking at her mystified. "I vill, of course, escort you back frauline."

"No, no! Please. Stay, enjoy the wine. It's still early yet, and I—I would prefer to escort myself." Picking up her reticule, Meg turned and fled the table, leaving a very confused nobleman and a maliciously murderous shrubbery in her wake.

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Erik waited until she began to pass the dark alleyway in which he was hiding. Then he grabbed her, spinning and quickly clapped a gloved hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her surprised scream. "Quiet, Megan. It is only me." he whispered into her ear feeling her relax against him. But then she was struggling out of his hold, and struggling away from the gloved hand he held at her mouth.

Shrugging away, she spat, "You have some nerve, Opera Ghost, to just show up after disappearing for five weeks! _Five weeks Erik!_ And nary a word! Something could have happened to you. You could have left, _you could have died!_ And I never—"her voice broke, "I never would have known!" Megan turned away from him and walked blindly into the dark alley. Erik could see she was fuming.

"And then you order—no _demand_ that… that I end my engagement early with the Baron." She scoffed, "And admittedly I was happy to do so—but... No!" She ran a hand through her hair, displacing her well-coiffed locks and hat with irritation. "You don't just get to dictate who I see and where I can go. What gives you the right? What right do you have—" In one fluid move, Erik had grabbed her and drew her to him, kissing her fiercely.

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The kiss ended as soon as it began leaving Meg breathless and wanting. "I think you'll find I have _every_ right, Megan." His whispered Voice hit her intimately, and she gasped, burying her head into his neck.

"Erik—"

"Quiet, _ptichka _. Let us go home. We have much to discuss concerning the ballet, and you need your rest for the performance tomorrow." He took her hand and placed it into the crook of his elbow and began walking back. His Voice sounded amused filling the silence between them, "And why you allowed those girls to box you so neatly into an outing with that pillock I will never know." Meg shook her head and took a moment to lift her face to the sky and breathe. Not that she could see the stars, there was far too much smog and smoke for that, but it was reassuring just the same to feel the warm evening breeze on her skin and be with the one that made her pulse race and her blood quicken.

She breathed in the flowered, fragrant evening air and looked over to find Erik watching her, an expression of wonder in his eyes and lips. "What?"

He blinked and shook his head. "Occasionally, you astonish, _ptichka_ ." He gave a little smile, and Meg felt a delicate blush stain her cheeks even as her heart leapt at the praise.

She cleared her throat, "So…umm, what have you been doing these last few weeks?" She put her other hand over his and felt his gloved fingers begin to trace circles inside her palm.

Just when she did not think he was going to deign to answer, he began to speak, "I have been refining the score and plotting the outline for _The Red Shoes_ in addition to one or two other side projects." Was it her imagination or did he sound slightly embarrassed? "At any rate, Megan, we need to begin staging the dance movements, and we will do so beginning tomorrow afternoon. I believe you are free then?" His eyes pierced her where she stood, and Meg imagined him giving her an arch look with his non-existent eyebrows.

"Yes, I am free." She smiled cheekily up at him. "After all, you ensured that I would be." They began walking once more, and she bumped his shoulder, "You didn't have to threaten to kill him, you know?"

He tugged her to the side of the street, away from the wheels of a passing carriage and putting her on his other side, tucked her neatly under his arm, "Of course I did, _ptichka_, and the offer still stands." His tone was lethally serious.

"I _seriously_ can take care of myself, Opera Ghost!" Meg disentangled herself from him and stood staring at him, her chin a stubborn point as she dared him to discredit her. "As I believe I have amply proven."

He looked at her doubtfully, "hmm…yes. You killed one would-be rapist, and you think you are a seasoned veteran of crime and all its underpinnings?" His tone held clear disbelief, and she shook her head, even as he smirked wickedly.

"No. I don't." Meg blinked, and he was gone.

She looked around. The streets were not deserted, but they were thinning out. And the streetlamps were few and far between in this part of town. _I am going to show you, little bird, just how wrong you are. _

His knowing Voice caressed her ear like the most intimate of touches and she shivered, drawing her shawl closer to her. "Erik…really, that is unnecessary." Meg's heart began to race as she drew her reticule closer and began to walk rapidly. If she judged him by his tone of Voice, he definitely was planning something for her, and she really did not think she was going to like the surprise.

An absent breeze blew and Meg tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, stopping walking when she realized her hat had disappeared. She felt her head and looked behind her.

It had not fallen off, so where?

She looked down and gasped; her reticule, shawl, and grandmother's pendant were now gone as well.

"Erik?!" She stamped her foot. "This is really quite unnecessary." She felt a whisper of air behind her, and suddenly, her hair was falling free, cascading in a fragrant heap from its pins down to her waist. "_ERIK_!" Shocked, she vainly tried to gather the mass into a semblance of order.

She felt strong arms steel around her pinning her in place, her elbows splayed above her head, trapping her with her own hair, "What now, mademoiselle?" His Voice was liquid warm and playful, and his breath was warm on her neck, the cool feel of his mask just grazing her cheek. "Just _how_ will you get free, hmm?" Meg looked around, assessing. He had maneuvered them into a little used byway that was for the moment unoccupied.

Thinking fast, Meg tucked her elbows as close as she could to her head, and dropped, slithering from his hold to the ground and then rolling back up to face him; her hair fanning in an arc behind her.

She stood before him, eyebrow arched in triumph, smiling slightly. "I should thank you, Opera Ghost. I never would have been able to pull off that maneuver with a hat perched on my head." And she turned and began to run full tilt through the streets and back alleys of Paris which thankfully were getting more familiar as she went.

She could feel him watching her, stalking her; their play was not at an end yet, and she just _knew_ that if she could make it back to Rue Scribe entrance, relatively unscathed, then she would 'win' this game of catch as catch can.

But even as she had the thought, a group of American college students came stumbling out of a tavern into her path, forcing her to stop running or cause a full on collision. "Hang on there, Ray. Look'ee there. Have you ever seen such?" The men were openly gawking and pointing at her, gesturing to her hair. "Now ain't she just a pretty little thing?" The men, four of them, began to make their way towards her, and Meg began to back up, not understanding their words but definitely understanding their intentions.

There was an alley just behind her. If she could make it, she had a chance of running away. "What's your rush, sugar? We just want to know the fee?" The leader of their little band spoke to her in rough French, smiling jovially, "All four of us; how much?"

Shaking her head, Meg turned and ran blindly into the dark alley, hearing them begin to pursue her. _By God in heaven, Megan! You do not do anything by halves, do you little bird?_

"Erik!" She panted, feeling a modicum of relief at knowing he was near, even as she developed a stitch in her side as she reached the entrance to the dark alleyway.

_Lead them here, and we will dispose of them. _

"NO!" she shouted. "I can outrun them." But one of them proved just how wrong she was. For with a burst of speed, he had caught up to her and caught her by her hair. Meg drew up short, crying out in pain.

"My God! But you are a fast one!" he panted. "Geoff, let's take her back to your father's chateau. He's gone for the month, right?" Meg struggled, trying to break his hold on her scalp, tears forming in her eyes. "My but she is feisty!"

Another of the men drew closer and caressed her cheek in the darkness. "I don't believe I've ever seen a more beautiful doxy in all my time in gay Paree! A month of sport just think of the fun we are going to have with this little filly."

Draw your _elbow back, Megan, and hit the man clutching your hair in the center of his chest on my mark._ His Voice sounded a calm reassurance in her ear, soothing her. _Once you do this,_ _pirouette and duck. _ She nodded slightly feeling a tug on her scalp as she did so._ NOW! _Meg did as directed, hearing a gasping moan from her would-be abductor even as she was spinning deftly and crouching low. Now o_n your feet, my dear. Kick, rotating from your hip, straight ahead_.

Again, she followed his orders, trusting him. She caught another in the chest and heard him gasp as he fell back. _Duck!_ Megan immediately hit the ground as arms made to grab for her. _Kick his legs out from underneath him. Now! _Looking over to her left, Meg did so, belatedly registering the snapping of bone and cartilage.

_And that just leaves one, ptichka._

She looked up. The fourth member of their little association looked around at his groaning friends and then down at her in astonishment, and he began to back away slowly. Meg gained her feet and tilting her head, narrowed her eyes at him. He held up his hands. "So-sorry, ma'am!" he touched the brim of his hat. "N-no harm meant, truly!" And he was running blindly through the alley way, but even as she watched, Erik broke away from the shadows, and with grace and economy of movement, had the man splayed and moaning just as much as his companions.

Gathering up the skirts of her ruined gown, Meg picked her way past the bodies of the young men over to her masked collaborator. "So does this mean I win?" She couldn't help the cheeky smile she gave him, even as she rubbed the dirt and grime from her hands. He took out his handkerchief and rubbed at a spot of dirt on her cheek.

"No." His Voice held much disapproval, but if Meg squinted just right, she could just see a glimmer of respect in his yellow eyes as they reflected what little light was to be had in the darkness. "It means you yet have much to learn and for me to teach you. Now come on, little Giry," he spared half a glance for the still-moaning young men, "we've quite had our fun this night, and it grows late." With a single hairpin, he restored her hair and hat to a semblance of order and gave her back her shawl, reticule, and pendant.

And together, they began to journey once more back to the opera house.

"You know, Erik. If this keeps up, I'm going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe. This was my second-best dress." Absently, Meg looked down, lamenting the beautiful silken confection that was now irrevocably stained, torn, and water-marked.

"There is an entire wardrobe filled with clothing in the bedroom of my home; you may have it all." His tone did not invite questions, and Meg didn't ask any, knowing already for whom he had intended the clothes.

Instead, she smiled her thanks and leaned more into him, resting her head on his arm. He drew her close, and Meg sighed feeling a sense of peace overcome her. She felt empowered! She felt cherished.

Goodness!

She felt loved.

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**review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is most welcome.**


	6. Part VI

One Good Turn part VI

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"Erik, the tempo is too fast! I cannot turn that fast!"

He gestured violently with his bow, "You can, and you will! This part is meant to showcase speed and movement, in addition to elegance and grace! You are always late on the beat when you practice, now _again_!"

They had spent weeks of afternoons and evenings together blocking out steps and assigning dances for the various movements of his ballet. Meg had been just as demanding as he in choosing and debating the perfect steps that would showcase all the ballet could be if it was given full reign to thrive without the shadow of the opera hanging o'er.

The resulting effort was a very challenging and exhausting undertaking that would test the stamina and endurance of the most seasoned danseur. The lead was the most challenging of all, and after the steps were decided upon, Meg had begun to practice forthwith in the second cellar with Erik playing the violin.

And through it all, little shows of affection, of touching, of kissing—of any kind at all—had been noticeably absent.

If Meg tried, she was rebuffed quite neatly. Ever since the night with the Baron, when he had all but kissed the life out of her, she had tried to kiss him every day. And every day, he always turned so that she was kissing the cool surface of the mask instead. She would try to hug him, and he would turn his body so that he was an all but impenetrable wall, impossible for her to get her arms around.

He treated her completely platonically, and Meg was beginning to feel like a tag-a-long sibling and not the potential mate for him that she envisioned herself.

And so, tonight, after a grueling day of practice and performance, of weeks borne of being rejected again and again for her advances, Meg resumed position, and once more began to dance.

Almost immediately, a shrill note sounded from the violin. "No, no, _NO!_ Megan you are late!"

Meg growled and pulled at her hair. She had had enough! Stalking over to her corner nook, she grabbed her towel, and throwing it around her neck, grabbed her carpet bag and made to leave.

A black shadow stood glowering in her path, "And just where do you think you are going, little Giry?" His tone was dangerous.

Meg was unimpressed.

She put her hands on her hips and stood toe to toe with him, her expression mutinous, "I am _going_ to bed! There is no use talking to you; you won't see reason!" Her tone dripped with acid disdain.

His eyes narrowed to slits, "You _will_ stay here, Megan, and you _will_ dance until you get it right!" With practiced precision, he took the towel and bag from her shoulders and flung them back into her corner nook.

He gestured with the bow to floor center. "Again."

Meg leaned into him, her own eyes narrowing to slits as her chin came up, "Make. Me."

Two words. Two oh-so- _very_ dangerous words! For with those words, she saw his eyes widen and dilate, and carefully, he sat down his violin and bow. Meg began backing away…slowly. His eyes never once left her, and she gulped. She hit the wall, and he began stalking towards her, "Care to repeat those words, my dear?"

"I… I said _make me_." Her voice shook, sounding a tad uncertain even though her chin remained a stubborn point.

He stalked slowly, and arriving in front of her, leaned in inches from her face. Meg could feel his breath ghost along the little beads of sweat dotting her forehead. "This is not open for debate, _Miss Giry_. You are a dancer. This is _my_ ballet. You have been hired to perform a service so _do_ it!" He poked her shoulder with a gloved finger, "And make no mistake, you will do so until you either die from exhaustion, or I dismiss you. _Are we clear_?"

With a frustrated growl, she shoved herself away from the wall and made for him, her mouth moving towards his own, piercing it with her tongue, claiming him.

A shocked second passed, and then his tongue was warring with hers, both fighting to master the kiss.

And it was a struggle, as the both of them were filled with repressed longings too long left un-assuaged.

They both groaned when he lifted her up in his arms, and Meg wrapped her legs around him, clutching the sides of his mask for balance even as she deepened the kiss further. Stumbling and sidestepping, he carried them over to the ancient divan, and sat them down in a cloud of dust with Meg sat astride him.

She pulled and tugged at his stiff collar, hearing buttons snap, and then his neck was free and exposed. She broke the kiss with an audible 'pop' to suckle his nape, drawing satisfaction when she heard him draw in a sharp hissing breath.

But then his hands were busy as well pulling and tearing at her practice clothes. And with a tug, she felt her breasts spill forth from her corset as her chemise was torn away.

And then his lips were them, suckling, drawing a rosy peak into his mouth, the cool surface of his mask gently abrading the tender flesh surrounding it. And his other hand reached to hold and tease her other breast; his long, elegant fingers working her nipple most ingeniously back and forth as he mimicked the actions he was performing with his tongue.

Meg closed her eyes at the dual sensation and bit his neck—hard—to stifle the screaming moan that wanted to break forth.

Great God! He was driving her wild! And oh, had the wait been worth it!

He gasped and sucked in harder at her nipple causing her to moan into his neck and grind her pelvis against him. He began to move his knees up and down in a measured, hurried rhythm, fueling Meg's desire to fever pitch. And then his hands were in her skirt bunching them to her waist, and her hands were fumbling with the unfamiliar placket of his trousers. And she felt him, the hard length of him for the first time, straining through the fabric. And she began to stroke him with her hand.

And he jumped, breaking away from her breast and looking at her in shocked amazement. Quickly, he shoved her away from him and stood, facing away from her.

"Fix yourself, Megan, and then get to bed." Meg gasped at his tone; it was glacial.

Hurriedly, she began to right her clothes. "Wh—what is it Erik?"

He didn't answer her; his posture rigid. She licked her lips. "Do you not want this, want us?" Getting up, she made for him, tightening her stays the best she could, but there was nothing to be done for the bodice. It was ripped beyond repair. "We can take it slower if you'd like? But I just thought—"

She turned to face him and was taken aback by the fury she found in his eyes. "Just what did you think, Marguerite?"

She stumbled upon her words, "I just—I mean… I know I'm not Christi—"

"_DO NOT SAY HER NAME!_" he roared, "_YOU ARE NOT FIT TO SPEAK IT_!" Twin flags of embarrassment and shame dotted Meg's cheeks even as her face drained of color. "I have known your kind before, Marguerite. You toy and trifle with a man's affections, spreading your favor around like so much meaningless currency, making you the contemptible, commonplace whore you are. _She_ is worth ten of you, Miss Giry. An angel such as _she_ would never have been caught in such a compromising position. _She_ would never—could never—have taken the liberties you have just taken upon me."

Meg's emotionless mask descended upon her, shielding her from him, from the hurt he just induced. Her tone was unaffected, final. "If that is the way you feel, then I will trouble you no longer." Turning, she gathered her carpet bag and towel and made for the door. She paused, and stated off-handedly, "Oh, and by the way, Opera Ghost, I just thought you would like to know. Christine's pregnant, and the midwife says she's about five months along."

So saying Meg calmly walked out the door of the second cellar, never once looking back.

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A/N: Just what the _hell_ was Erik thinking?! Never fear, we are soon to find out…

But I knew that whole 'angel or whore' Victorian idealized thinking would get him into trouble one day… and what of Christine? Why, that would mean she was pregnant well before the events of her abduction and almost wedding came about. Oh dear, oh dear. …please review; even if it's to kick me a good one in the bahookie.

More following soon. I promise!

**_DGM_**


	7. Part VII

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As promised ;D

...and please do remember how good your authoress is and has been to you and kindly leave her a review.

_**DGM**_

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One Good Turn part VII

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The new Prima Ballerina Absoluta had developed quite the reputation for being an 'Ice Queen'. She danced divinely, so the critics stated, but off the stage, she was as cold as Marley's ghost and just as inaccessible.

Again, so the critics said.

All of the critiques Erik read with a gimlet eye as he finalized the proposal and paperwork necessary to transition the Opera to a ballet venue only. It had been three months since the events of the second cellar; three months and nary a word or gesture of acknowledgment from Mademoiselle Marguerite Giry.

She took direction like a dream, or so Reyer said. And artistically, no one could fault her. But upon being given the mantle of Prima Ballerina, Miss Giry had promptly moved out of her mother's apartments in the ballet dormitories above and into an apartment situated very near the Seine. She was never once late for rehearsals; Erik could not fault her for her professionalism there; however much he wanted to. And she gave her all to practice and the performance of her art.

And while on stage, she _was_ the character in portrayal—tragically beautiful or light-heartedly gay. Precise perfection and exceptional characterization in every single movement.

But Erik had made it his mission to watch and observe her nearly a year ago, and he knew, KNEW that she—the core of her—just wasn't _there_. Oh, she put on a good show, he'd give her that. She knew exactly the right things to say to allay suspicion and quiet talk. She knew exactly how to behave.

But it was all of it an act. She was untouchable.

And he knew for he had tried.

Two weeks to the day of their most unfortunate parting, Erik had gone to her to apologize.

In those two weeks of mutual silence, he had come to realize some very uncomfortable truths.

He had not believed her. Not really. How could he have? He had loved Christi—_her_—no, dammit! _Christine!_ with all his heart and soul. He had given of himself completely as he had never done so before. And Christine, she had taken all he had to give as her due, never expecting him to ask for anything in return.

But why would she have?

He had lied to her from the very beginning, setting the nature and tone of their relationship. And she had only needed to play the part of betrayed ingénue in order to escape his wicked, fiendish clutches.

And she did so in the arms of another.

Erik had paid the Chagny's a visit that very evening to see for himself if what Megan had said was true. As he watched her sleep the sleep of the virtuous in the arms of her fop, the visual evidence could not be denied—her protruding belly bespoke of a pregnancy gone on _well_ before their vows were trothed. Which meant what Megan said was indeed true. Which also meant Christine, his innocent, pure, and chaste love, had lain with the fop sometime in early February, perhaps even as early as January.

He had left them as quietly as he had come, leaving their little nest undisturbed, and made his way back to the Opera where he proceeded to get blisteringly, blindingly drunk. And he stayed that way for three solid days. When he had finally emerged from his alcohol-hazed cocoon, he had turned his thoughts to the little ballerina that, of late, had so captured them.

And there, they had remained for the last two months and eleven days.

His first thought was that she was strong; so incredibly strong. She met him, _the Angel of Death_, toe-to-toe and refused to back down, knowing fully of what he was capable as she had both seen and experienced it first-hand.

He didn't put her in the same class as Christine. How could he? She was night to Christine's day in terms of temperament and comportment. He would rail and bluster, and Christine would cower—the reaction he had come to expect from all who crossed his ire.

But Megan? She gave just as good as she got.

That was… up unto a point. And then she shut down. And this worried him, worried him very much. For as strong as she was purported to be on the outside, Erik had a sneaking suspicion that it was all a façade.

He thought back to the gang of American bores in the alleyway. If that had happened to Christine, Erik would have been compelled to kill them all in order to avenge her honor. But Megan had proved time and again that she was capable of fending for herself. And Erik had let her, needing give her only the barest scraps of direction and watching in wonder as she took down adversary after adversary with natural instincts of a predator.

With a bit of honing, she could be wonderful.

And since he was being so honest with himself, Erik had to admit his thoughts for Megan were far from those of a teacher for his pupil or even for one friend to another.

His nocturnal meanderings featured her prominently.

And although he never could bring himself to think about Christine in such a fashion, thoughts of Megan in his bed and in his arms, moaning underneath him as he worked over her came easily to him.

Much too easily.

And so this had led him to question why.

Why had he lashed out so viciously at her? Why had he said such unforgivable, irretrievable words? Erik closed his eyes, gritting his teeth, steeling himself once more against the thoughts to come.

There were many reasons; the most prominent being that he had not truly allowed himself to surrender his feelings for Christine. He had not grieved. He had not mourned for what could have been and would now never be. He had instead boxed them up, labeled them neatly, and stowed them away; only thinking of those emotions when they turned up at the most inconvenient of times—such as those spent in the intimate company of Megan.

The next was that he was unsure of Megan's sincerity in her attraction to him. She was a gifted actress was Megan, able to make almost anyone believe what they wanted to believe. And she was young and quite beautiful. She had the world before her, a titled gentleman clamoring for her favor, and the brains and talent to really make something of herself without anyone's help.

And that was another thing that worried him; for he had no hold on her—no claim whatsoever.

With Christine, she had needed him, needed his constant reassurance as well as his guise of 'Angel' in order to fully develop her talent into what it had the potential to be.

Megan's victory was solely hers to savor. She needed no one to guide her save herself. No one's approval for she already knew she was worthy, that she _could_ do and be whatever she set out to be.

And this intimidated him; it scared him.

For, if she did not need him in some fundamental way, then why would she want to befriend him, be anything more to him? It was a feeling that the young, scarred boy still looking for approval in Erik could not reconcile, and so he had tried that horrid, awful day to pigeon-hole their relationship, their friendship, into nothing more than a working one. Through the long weeks they had collaborated on that cursed ballet, he had repeatedly told himself that this was all it could be.

His feelings of ownership, of possessiveness, were unjustified, and her continued advances meaningless. He had lied to himself and rebuffed her advances during the day even as he came to the thoughts of her kissing and holding him at night.

And then that horrid day! It had proved to be the breaking point in tension for them both. Just like a wire too finely taut, it had snapped, and Erik did not think it would ever be able to be put back together.

At least, not now.

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"Oh, but doesn't the _milen'kiye_ dance divinely, Nikolai?" Valentina Demidov asked her brother as they sat in a box overlooking the stage.

"hmm…_da, moya sestra_, she does." Just then the little ballerina did a series of quick, light movements that had her sweeping across the floor towards them, coming to rest right below.

"Oh, isn't her Bourrée fantastic?" Valentina clapped her hands enthusiastically and whispered in his ear, "This seals it. When the season ends, I'm asking her to return with us." She looked over at her handsome brother; his warm grey eyes never once having left the little ballerina on stage, and she smiled to herself.

With luck, Nikolai wouldn't let her refuse.

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In the privacy of her dressing room, Meg Giry took off her stage makeup and costume and donned her practice tights and dress. She was thought ludicrous for having chosen this little room no bigger than a closet, so far away from the rest of the opera staff and dormitories, but she had chosen it for very specific reasons.

The room had no wall-mounted mirrors, and only one inner wall that did not connect to a hallway. And Meg had gone over it with a fine-toothed comb, inspecting it for hidden doors and hatches. And too, the little room was quite forgotten, which is how Meg liked it. She knew what the critics said of her. _Ice Queen, Frigid Princess. _She entertained no one: no autographs, no admirers, no kind words to and from her adoring fans whatsoever; an attitude very unusual for that of a _Prima_.

But when Meg danced, she danced for herself and herself only, much to the managers' chagrin. And she refused to kow-tow to the masses that would have her gallivanting from patron to patron and lover to lover for publicity and sensationalism's sake.

Oddly enough, her strange behavior only endeared her more to the public.

She plaited her hair in a simple style and twisted the length of it around her head looking at his latest 'offering' of apology. They had started a month before after each performance when his missives went unanswered by her. At first, he had tried to speak to her, but Meg chose not to listen, effectively blocking him out and retreating to the paradise inside her head as she practiced.

What more could he say, really? He had called her a cheap whore that effectively threw herself at every man she saw, never to equal that _paradigm of virtue_ that was _his_ Christine.

And Meg realized she never would be Christine's equal. She couldn't compete with her, not in his eyes. And so, she stopped trying.

Instead, she danced. While in her little world, she was no one's second best.

When she felt herself beginning to feel again, feel the hurt, the shame, the heartbreak, she danced. Morning, noon, and night; all the emotion, all the pain from his hurtful words and actions drifted deep and far away while inside the mental constructs of her imagination.

Without so much as a second thought, she threw the bunch of eglantine roses into the rubbish heap and made her way back to the stage, already immersing herself in the part of Giselle dancing for Duke Albrecht; compelling him to fall in love with her.

She glided upon the stage, shy and beautiful, alternately teasing and tempting her disguised Duke that wore the clothes of a peasant.

And he would come and partner her, and Meg danced those parts as well, gliding seamlessly along the floor imagining her Duke holding her in his arms.

And then she _was_ being held and lifted, gracefully and surely.

And she was being twirled around the floor, swept off her feet by her Duke as he held her close to him, showing her through reverent and sure movements, how much he loved and was devoted to her.

And he lowered her gently to the ground, drawing her against him. And sweetly, oh so sweetly, he kissed her lips.

She could feel herself waking up from her self-imposed emotional exile, and trembling, Meg closed her eyes to savor the sensation; one of comfort, of familiarity, of home. Only coming out of her dream-filled haze when applause resounded from the wings; Meg jumped, her eyes snapping open meeting those of molten mercury.

Quickly, she broke away, a gentle blush suffusing her cheeks even as the applause continued. "Oh, that was marvelous! Absolutely marvelous!" Meg looked over, a fair-haired young woman, maybe ten years her senior, with eyes the color of _the Duke's_ came smiling up to them. "Greetings, mademoiselle! I am Valentina Demidov." The woman clutched Meg's hands drawing her into a friendly hug and kissing her on each cheek, "And you, Marguerite Giry, dance divinely! I just _know_ we are going to be fast friends!" Meg's look of shocked bemusement caused _the Duke_-the man-her impromptu dance partner to laugh boisterously.

"Ease up a little, Valentina, you are smothering the _kotenok_, _moy_ _dorogaya sestra_." The woman—Valentina—not looking for one moment contrite, let go of her shoulders, and winking, put her arm around Meg's waist.

"Mademoiselle Giry, may I present to you, my brother, Nikolai Demidov." The grey-eyed man bowed from the hip, and only then did Meg notice he wasn't wearing a jacket or shoes. His feet were that of a dancer's—ugly and well-muscled. Her eyes travelled up the rest of him. Fit and toned, with a dancer's grace and build. He was perhaps ten or twelve years older than she with little crinkled laugh lines starting to fan the sides of his eyes. He was giving her a warm look filled with humor and Meg's lips tingled from the remembered kiss even as her cheeks burned. "We have been watching you perform and stuck around after show's end to speak with you, but we could not find your rooms."

Valentina explained this as her brother went to don his coat, hose, and shoes once more. "This place is an absolute _labirint_." she tsk'd, "But then you showed up again on stage, and you can imagine our surprise! And when you began to dance the part of Giselle! Oh _priyatel'nitsa_, you were sublime! Nikolai could not help but to partner you." The woman gave her a knowing grin.

Meg pulled away slightly from the jovial woman, and smiled bemused, feeling her spirits begin to lift for the first time in three months. "Yes, but just who _are_ you?" her voice was mystified.

The man—Nikolai—came up behind her, and settled her cloak around her shoulders. "That, _moy malen'kiy kotenok_, is an excellent question, and one best answered over dinner. Come, we will escort you. But first, _kotenok_, a change of footwear." They all three of them looked down at her toe shoes, and Meg drew up on pointe holding her leg in attitude, feeling Valentina's arm holding her steady.

She replied airily, "Oh, I don't know. I could go out like this…"

"And give the people a show for free?" he tsk'd, "_Kotenok_, that is just bad business." His grey eyes filled with gentle humor, he spun her around quickly, her cloak billowing. "Now lead us to your dressing room. We are all of us starved."

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Meg couldn't remember having spent a more enjoyable dinner out, or if she could, she refused to acknowledge it.

The brother and sister Demidov were quite the entertaining pair, keeping Meg in stitches with their traveling exploits across Europe as they made their way back to their home in St. Petersburg. "Oh, and let us tell the _kotenok_ about the bar man from Brussels." Valentina looked at her mischievously and winked, "Ah, but the man- he had _big_ muscles!" Waggling her eyebrows, she gestured widely, laughing as her brother began regaling them with yet another tale.

The wine flowed freely, and the three of them wiled away the evening, exchanging stories and getting to know one another. It seemed they were dancers in the Russian Ballet in Moscow, having danced and partnered one another for years, and they were on leave, traveling the continent before heading home to their family estate.

The Demidov's, it seemed, were of the merchant class and had quite made their money in shipping and transportation several generations back. Their family was fabulously wealthy, and the children—there were six of them—had been encouraged by their parents to follow their dreams, whatever they might be. Nikolai and Valentina had chosen to study ballet, and had been principals in the Russian Ballet Academy for seven years now.

He truly had a gift for storytelling, did Nikolai, and more than once, Meg was caught up, spellbound in his words and voice, as he related them to her. "But we have got to tell you, _kotenok_, the real reason we are here in Paris." Meg looked at the pair, the both of them smiled and looked at her with expectation.

Meg leaned in closer and listened carefully; they looked at one another and nodded.

"You see, Valentina is getting older, and is desirous of a role more behind the scenes. You see, Marguerite, we are starting a new ballet company in St. Petersberg and have been scouring the continent looking for the best of the best." Nikolai's molten gaze assessed her appreciatively, "You, _kotenok_, are of the best, and we would like to offer you the chance to be the leading principal in our new company." Meg's eyes widened.

"You look shocked. Valentina, she looks shocked. Ply her with wine and quickly." His grey eyes crinkled with laughter as his sister compelled her to take a large sip from the glass. "Naturally, you will be making a substantial amount. After all, in mother Russia, dancing is considered an art form without equal to any other, including this _opera_ the French—," he wrinkled his nose, "—are so fond of employing." His tone told her exactly what he thought of the opera.

"Well, what do you say, _priyatel'nitsa, _is it something that would interest you?" Valentina looked at her hopefully, smiling.

Meg bit her lip, looking from one to the other of them. "I accept." The moment the words left her mouth, she felt a lead ball of heartache pierce her core, but she ruthlessly squashed the feeling and smiled brightly.

Squealing, Valentina rose from the table and drew her up, kissing her on each cheek and hugging her. "Oh, Marguerite, you are going to be sensational! We will take St. Petersberg by storm! Oh, Nick what a joy-filled day!" and Megan smiled and laughed, and listened as they began to make preparations for the journey and months to come.

And all the while, she felt as if her heart was breaking.

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He had taken to wearing his flesh-colored mask around the opera house, able to flit and mingle somewhat seamlessly with its denizens during performances. For after each performance, after each extended practice she would give herself, he would secretly escort Megan home to her little apartment by the Seine.

He had inspected her quarters himself while she had been absent, ensuring the locks on the doors and windows would keep out various undesirables from molesting her. He had made it his business to know the business of her neighbors to ensure she maintained her anonymity, her privacy—as that was what she seemed to need at this time.

And so, as he waited for her to finish yet another extended practice, where she danced in her imagined world, he watched entranced as she floated and glided upon the stage, a beautiful creature to behold. And then his heart plummeted, for Erik could see a man join her. Another dancer. Equal to her talent in every possible way.

And they danced with one another beautifully! And then the man kissed her—kissed _his_ Megan! And she closed her eyes and surrendered to the man's arms. And Erik felt his heart slow its beat until it seemed time had stood still as he watched the pair of them embrace. And then her eyes opened, and Erik could see that she had emerged, awakened from her self-imposed cocoon. She was back—_his Megan_—back to feeling emotion.

And it was not _his_ kiss that had made it so. But another's.

He felt nauseous. He felt broken.

Mostly, he felt an ineffable sadness take hold of him.

But still, he grew closer to them; listening as the brother and sister introduced themselves and all but corralled Megan into dining with them.

And smiling, she had accepted, laughing and teasing as she used to do with him. And oh, it was very much a death from a thousand cuts, as each smile, each laugh she gave was not directed at him; it was not _his_ to savor as he had not put that spot of joy on her cheek!

Erik followed them, his hat tilted low over his brow, as they made their way through the Parisian streets to a little restaurant on the skirt of Rue de Rivoli. Taking a seat near the wall, facing away from them, he listened as they talked and laughed. And he heard Megan's laughter—her genuine laughter—and he heard the man's—Demidov's— flirting quips, even though he doubted at times, Megan even knew what he was saying.

And then the two of them—the brother and sister— had asked her to be their principal.

And she, his _ptichka_, had accepted. Erik closed his eyes.

With two words, he had lost her—lost his Prima Ballerina and lost his chance at getting her back.

He knew no amount of begging, of pleading, would work. Hadn't he tried that already? For her, the influencing, mesmerizing power of his Voice held no sway. His letters and flowers had gone into the rubbish bin as so much trash, and Erik knew once Megan set her course, she would not be swayed.

Watching as they left, both of them agreeing to escort her home, Erik made his way back to the opera, feeling a kind of numbness take hold.

The calm before the storm.

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**review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is most welcome.**


	8. Part VIII

One Good Turn part VIII

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The flowers had stopped appearing the day after her acceptance of the Demidov's offer, and Meg immediately knew _he_ knew of her decision. She did not know how he knew, but he did. And even though a part of her was railing at her to go to him, to throw herself upon him and explain, she did not.

It was better this way.

He was better this way; she should never have tried to befriend him.

He was lonely, heartbroken, and embittered, and she—she had her future before her. Three more performances. Three more weeks, and then she would leave Paris and all the memories of _him_ behind her.

At the thought, the lead weight in her stomach increased ten-fold.

Her future—without him in it.

Ruthlessly, she threw away her musings like so much trash and made ready for her outing with the Demidovs. They were going to a performance of _Hamlet_ hosted by another up-and-coming opera house, and there was to be no singing, only acting with accompanying music. Her mother would be joining them.

Meg had told her mother of her decision only yesterday and made sure the managers knew of her decision just today. Her mother's reaction surprised her for she figured she would be upset that she would be moving so far away.

But she only studied her for the longest time, assessing, before she spoke, "My only concern, Marguerite, is that you do not know the language or the people there. I want to meet with this brother and sister and make sure they know of my concerns." Meg instantly agreed and sent a missive to the Demidovs to that affect who had then agreed to meet them for dinner and a show.

And so Meg donned her best frock and made herself ready. The Demidovs were to be picking her up before they would be journeying to the Opera to collect her mother, and Meg forced her thoughts away from _him_ to those of Nikolai.

He was handsome, dashing, the perfect dance partner.

And while they danced, for he now partnered her every night after each day's performance and rehearsals were complete, Meg could indeed imagine that he was Duke Albrecht, Prince Siegfried, Prince Florimund, and a thousand other roles that she could then counter.

And she did, giving of herself to the stage, _to him_, and their rehearsals were sublime!

But outside the stage, he did not make her pulse race, and her blood quicken. Although his tender regard and jovial good humor were a balm she needed desperately, and she absorbed them like a flower soaking up the rays of the sun. But his brief kisses and caresses left her cold and empty, and she couldn't help but feel that it was wrong somehow. Allowing him to kiss her, touch her away from the stage, was wrong.

Hearing the carriage draw up outside, Meg grabbed her reticule and cloak and made for the door, pasting a cheery smile on her face and adopting a carefree air.

Tonight was a time for celebration, for decision-making, and a finalization of plans.

It was not a time for second-guessing.

That time had long since past.

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"Alright, so then it is decided _moy_ _malen'kiy kotenok_, you will arrive to us in St. Petersburg a week after the season ends in Paris, and we will begin training for the opening in Spring." The four of them sat around the dining table, sipping their brandies and talking quietly.

"You do keep calling Marguerite that. _Malin key coat-in-knock_" Her mother's tone held a faintly disapproving note, "What does it mean?"

Nikolai smiled wolfishly at her mother, and raised his eyebrows suggestively, "I call her my love slave, Madam." Both Meg and Valentina threw their napkins at him, even as Madam Giry's outraged gasp drew the looks from other dining patrons.

"Oh! It does not!" Meg stated, laughing.

"_Moy glupyy _brother is teasing you Madam. He calls her 'little kitten'. It is a term of endearment, no more, no less." She gave her brother an arch look that had him snickering into his brandy. Madam Giry gave the younger man a look that had, in the past, had lesser stagehands cowering in their boots.

"But in all sincerity, Madam, your _kotenok_ will be well taken care of. As soon as she arrives, she will be safely ensconced in our family home, and I will make her cry and her feet to bleed." Nikolai smiled sweetly, a dark promise in his eyes, "She will likely curse and want to murder me where I stand, but she will be the better for it as you well know Madam." Her mother nodded at this. "And when springtime comes to Russia, our _kotenok_ will perform her debut and stun them all."

At the end of his speech, her mother had a thoughtful look about her, and at length, she nodded. "Naturally, I will be invited to see this debut." Her tone held some doubt that this would be the case.

"Naturally, you are invited to come along as well." Her mother gasped, and Nikolai smiled a genuine smile, "I have seen the work you've put forth for the Opera, madam; making silk purses out of the varied sow's ears you've been provided. You have done quite well, but like your daughter, you are too good for that place. I am offering you a chance to work with dedicated professionals intent on honing their art and becoming the best in their craft. What do you say, Madam Giry?" Nikolai smiled like a shark.

"I—I believe I will have to think on it." For the first time, Meg could see a light in her mother's eyes; a light of hope, of promise, that had been absent long before her father died in the carriage accident that had so crippled her and left her walking permanently with a cane. "I won't be able to leave, not at least until after the winter season." She warned, her tone filled with reproach, and Nikolai's eyes crinkled.

"_Naturally_, Madam." He bowed his blond head in acknowledgment, "I want no bad blood between you and the Opera house that has been so good to you and your daughter. Now, ladies, the time has come to adjourn to the Théâtre du Châtelet. We do not want to be late and miss the '_MURDER_!'

And Meg and Valentina rejoined, "_Murder most foul, as in the best it is._" Laughing, they made for the carriage that would transport them to Shakespeare's fabled rotten Denmark and its murderous plot.

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Try as he might, Erik could not dislike this Demidov. The man was, in fact, very intelligent. He conducted his business much as Erik was wont to do, and he had quite woo'd both his prima ballerina and his ballet mistress right out from under his non-existent nose. Erik had just found out from the managers that Antoinette was planning on leaving in the spring, and even as the thought made him see red, he could appreciate the man's style—his finesse.

Demidov worked Megan hard, harder than she'd ever been. And he knew his art. Erik could not fault him there. Though discretely, he had made inquiries. The brother and sister were exactly what they claimed to be, and they were offering his Megan her dreams.

But the man still kissed her and caressed her, and Megan, she allowed it.

He would be good for her.

The thought stabbed him, tearing at him like so many talons. He had to let her go—_he couldn't let her go_!

She was his Megan, his _ptichka_. She was _his_ before she was Demidov's, and Erik would be damned before he saw her gracing the arm of another man.

_She was his._

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It was a beautiful fall day as Nikolai escorted her along the Seine. The wind had a nip of cold, and the air smelled of winter spice and wood smoke. Valentina was making preparations for their return journey home taken by train. The both of them would depart this evening, and this would be the last she saw of them for two weeks until she joined them in St. Petersburg.

Nikolai stopped them by a gnarled oak and turning, sat with her on a bench. In the ensuing silence, he studied her carefully, his nearly transparent grey eyes narrowing to slits, "You must tell me who he is."

Meg looked at him, a question forming in her eyes.

"The man that has taken your heart, _moy_ _malen'kiy kotenok_. He must surely be exceptional to have done so." Feeling like she had been punched in the gut, Meg looked away, tears forming quickly in her eyes. She felt a gentle, gloved hand draw her chin back to face him, as Nick gave her a level look of concern. "Tell me, does this man know of the treasure he possesses?"

The dam broke, and her tears flowed quickly, even as Nikolai reached for and drew her close to him, whispering shushing noises. "It's alright, _kotenok_. It's alright."

"How ca-can it be alright, Nikolai? I am leaving. Leaving him. My final performance is in three days ti-time." He held a handkerchief up to her cheek and dried her tears.

"Hush now, Marguerite. All will soon right, you shall see."

"How d-do you know?" she snuffled, blowing into the handkerchief he held for her.

He smirked. "I am Russian _and_ Demidov; we _know_ these things." He puffed up his chest, looking arrogantly regal, "Isn't that enough _moy_ _kotenok_?"

She rolled her eyes and smiling, hugged him back, "Too much. It's too much."

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Her final performance came and went with nary a hitch. Her trunks were packed and still she waited—waited for some sign, some acknowledgment from him of her leaving. Nothing. No note, no flowers. No prettily prepared speech begging her to stay.

She snorted. As if _he_ would ever do that.

And she felt childish, and she felt petty. For hadn't he tried to apologize so many times before? And she had stone-walled him, ignored him.

She thought about trying to make her way one last time down to his underground chambers.

But no. What would she say? It would change nothing.

She was going, he was staying. And that was that.

"Marguerite, if you don't hurry, you are going to miss your train."

Meg looked up from her reverie to find her mother anxiously hovering by her dressing room door. "You have your passport, your money, your letter from Monsieur Demidov explaining the nature of your immigration?"

Meg stopped herself from rolling her eyes, but just barely, "Yes, maman."

"And you are going to use caution, and be safe while on the train ride there?" Her mother gave her a piercing look.

Meg couldn't help it, she smiled cheekily, "Yes, maman." Madam Giry tutted, and making her way over to her daughter, hugged her fiercely.

"Now come on, Fredric has hired a handsome, and we don't want to be late." Meg took a deep breath, and gathering up her valise, took a look around the little dressing room where she had had her first taste of independence even as she checked once more in vain for some sign that he would miss her.

She did not allow herself to feel sadness.

The time for grieving would come. Instead, she gave a small goodbye to her life in Paris, and drawing a deep breath, shut the door.

One chapter of her life had closed.

Another set to begin.

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Meg approached the booth, and giving her name, waited for the man to hand her a boarding pass. "Ah, Miss Giry. Yes. Your ticket has been upgraded to a private car. The gentleman felt you would find the accommodations more to your liking." Meg blinked and then smiled widely.

The Demidovs knew how to travel in style! She followed the directions the stationmaster gave her and made her way to the private car, where she had been assured, her luggage and portmanteau had already been loaded.

Climbing the steps, she spared one last look at the Parisian skyline, and then stepped inside.

The door shut with a muted click, plunging her into unrelieved darkness.

Meg's eyes strained, trying to adjust from daylight to that of unexpected, impenetrable dark.

"Hello, _ptitchka_."

Meg paled even as her heart beat a staccato rhythm inside her chest.

"Er-Erik?"

"You were expecting someone else, perhaps?" Suddenly a match was struck and Meg looked over into the corner, even as a lamp was lit. There he sat, studying her, his black mask reflecting golden from the light of the lamp.

Meg licked her lips nervously. "Wha-what are you doing here?"

He rose with the leonine grace that made him so compelling, and began walking slowly towards her, stopping scant inches from where she was pressed against the door. His eyes seared her, unblinking. "You were going to leave without saying goodbye, Megan?" His Voice and eyes held pain.

Meg bit her lip to stop it from trembling. "I—I thought it best."

He lifted his gloved hand and caressed her cheek, "Best? Best for whom? Surely you couldn't have thought it best for me—for us?"

She turned her cheek, pushing herself away from him. "_Us_? There is no us. You made that abundantly clear." Just then the warning whistle began to sound. "You need to leave." She turned the handle on the door; it held fast.

Feeling for the lock, she tried again.

It still wouldn't budge. Meg began to sweat, turning toward the door and pushing with all her might. The door held still. She looked back at him. His eyes watched her steadily: blank, no expression. "Erik. What have you done?"

He backed away from her and resumed his seated position once more. "I have given us time, _ptichka_. Time to make amends. To begin anew. To say goodbye. The choice is yours, my dear."

Just then the train began to move, and Meg closed her eyes, feeling anger war with profound relief.

It was going to be a long journey.

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A/N: He's ba-ack . I know I'm happy. Are you, dear reader? Do let the authoress know, won't you?

As an aside, I do declare I'm goin' to be takin' off for the weekend. But I do promise to have an update come Monday… …with perhaps a smidgen of smut, you lucky, lucky phans you!

_**DGM**_


	9. Part IX

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The authoress would like to take a moment to remind her readers that this fic is rated 'M' and for a reason. You have been warned.

_**DGM**_

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Meg sat on the other side of the compartment, absorbing this new turn of events. Erik was here! With her. For the next six days.

Oh, never mind the days. Think of the nights. Five nights. Trapped in a private car—with him.

Surreptitiously, Meg looked around. They would not want for much; that would be sure: a heady assortment of varied reading materials, a deck of cards, a chessboard? What did he expect? That they were going to play games of whist whilst whiling away their time together?

And then there were the sleeping arrangements. One bed—as in singular. As in small—a thick-mattressed camp bed, barely big enough to hold one person. Well, one of them was simply going to have to sleep on the floor. That was all there was to it. Meg looked at him assessing, vowing then and there it wouldn't be her.

He, after all, was squatting on her turf.

Drawing a deep breath for composure, she stated in her steadiest voice, "Alright, Erik. You have my attention. What is it you would like to say to me?" Meg sat stiffly in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, not looking at him.

His words—his hurtful, careless words came back to her, and she bottled down the feelings she felt. She would listen, although Lord knows she definitely did not owe him that much, and then when the train stopped next, she would ask him politely to leave and never, ever trouble her again. Yes, that is exactly what she would do.

She arched her eyebrows expectantly waiting for him to speak.

…the silence continued.

She could feel the weight of his stare; knew he was begging, no demanding, that she look up, to meet his eyes.

She patently refused.

And just when she contemplated retreating to the little corner inside her mind, he spoke."Sixty-seven."

Caught off guard, Meg looked up and met his yellowed gaze, a question forming in her own. His eyes shown with triumph even as his lips took on a firm line. "Sixty-seven times did you try to approach me. Sixty-seven times did I refuse you. Sixty-seven separate causes of hurt and pain did I cause you, Megan, in addition to the hurtful words I spoke that Day."

Meg gulped, her eyes immediately falling to her lap once more. She bit her lip, feeling tears spring to her eyes. A whisper of air, and she looked up to find him kneeling before her, inches from her face. She blinked, and he had moved closer still to where only a hairsbreadth stood between her lips and his own. He spoke, and Meg could feel the tiny puffs of displaced air move over her lips, warming them. "Sixty-seven opportunities for you to accept or return in kind the treatment I did bestow upon you." His Voice was hushed, almost reverential. A tear fell and his gloved hand caught it, even as she moved her cheek away from it, moved her lips away from his.

"One." His muttered sibilant sounded a gunshot in the confines of the cab, and with a strangled cry, she rose from the chair and retreated to the only spot of privacy left in the damned cab—the privy. She looked around, examining it. It wasn't that bad, really. She could make a suitable pallet near the wash basin. It would be cramped; the room was at most three feet wide, but she would manage.

Meg met her stare in the mirror and the dam broke.

Suddenly, all the emotions—all the anger, the pain, and the yearning she felt came galloping back to her, and she slid down the wall, floored by it all. Thoughts and emotions she had tried so hard to suppress, to forget, suddenly came bubbling to the surface.

_Oh! How dare he!_ And _why_?

What did his being here mean? Was he over Christine? Was he playing a game with her? Meg's mind churned even as her stomach tensed in knots. She pressed a fist to her mouth to muffle the scream of pain she felt. She heard a gentle knock on the door. "Are you alright, Megan? Do you need anything?"

Meg counted to ten before she answered, "Yes. And to be left alone."

A beat of silence, then two. "I will give you ten minutes to compose yourself. And then I'm coming in there."

This couldn't be borne. Oh, this couldn't be! She felt trapped, cornered and desperate. And Erik really wasn't helping matters.

And so, Meg did what she always did when the world became too much.

She went away.

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Surpassing the lock on the bathroom door took seconds only, and Erik opened it to find Megan propped against the wall, staring blankly out into space, looking a marionette with her strings cut.

He had pondered for days how he could counter this particular behavior of hers. Short of dumping a pitcher of water on her to shock her out it, he did not know. But no; this was not _her_ time. This was _their_ time—theirs! _And she would spend it with him_.

Picking her up, Erik laid her down on the little bunk and blew out the lamp. Then carefully, he fit himself until he was beside her, not quite touching, but he could still feel her warmth, her heat. Tentatively, he drew her until her head rested on his shoulder.

And then Erik began to speak.

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"…asked once how I knew the things I did, _ptichka_, and I refused to answer you at the time." Meg felt him move his hand until it rested lightly at her waist, holding her. "I will rectify that slight now." She realized darkness had fallen. She didn't know how many minutes or possibly hours had passed with them lying thusly. But the fact remained, her head was pillowed on his bony shoulder, and his arm was around her waist. And they were fitted quite snuggly together on the little bunk.

And Meg she felt comfortable, listening to his Voice hushed in the darkness. How long had he been speaking to her?

"I am older than you; considerably so, and I have travelled the world extensively. I ran from my mother's house when I was seven, _ptichka_. You have seen my face, you know its horror. You can imagine my mother's surprise upon being presented it at my birth." Meg winced, unconsciously putting her hand on his chest to comfort. He started, and she knew that he was looking down at her, assessing in the darkness. And then his other hand drew hers up to his lips and offered it a kiss.

She opened her palm, and he placed the most tender and reverent of kisses inside. "Two." She closed her palm, and he lowered her hand until it was once again on his chest. "Needless to say, my formative years were hell for both myself and my mother; my father having died months previous before my birth. Even though it was quite apparent early on that I had been gifted with a certain amount of intelligence and talent, she never let me forget, for one moment Megan, how I had ruined her life. I will not go into details, it would be too maudlin, even for me, and I refuse to put you through that. But I will say my running away from home was entirely justified, and by age seven, I found myself a prisoner of a wandering gypsy camp and was displayed as a freak in one of their tents."

Meg gasped, turning in the darkness, seeing nothing, but feeling her heart breaking. She put both her arms around him and held him tight. He stiffened at first, but then relaxed in her hold; his hands coming to her back and rubbing in gentle circles. His Voice hushed in the darkness, "We travelled, for months and then years. And I—I learned sleight of hand and ventriloquism as a means of keeping my handlers happy."

And Meg could imagine how important it had been to do so, dependent on them for food and kind treatment as he was. "And then I was presented with the opportunity for escape, Megan, and I did so. Will it shock you to learn that the first murder I ever committed was at age ten, _ptichka_?" And Meg began to tremble. He drew her face up to look at his in the darkness. "And now Erik has scared you, his Megan, with the talk of his past. He understands if Megan thinks him a monster. He knows he is one, but per—"

"Oh Erik, that's not it at all!" Reaching up, Meg grasped his mask, drawing it down until she was reasonably certain he was looking in her eyes. "I am angry, Erik. Angry at what you had to go through at such a tender age. I am not scared, or upset. At least, not at you. Please understand."

His hands came over hers and lowered them from his mask, kissing each of them and placing them on his heart. Meg settled back to where she was lying pillowed on his chest, hearing the vibrations of his Voice as he began to speak once more. "That was three and four, Megan dear." She smiled slightly. His Voice in the darkness was as soft and intimate as the rasp of velvet on her skin.

"And then I found my way to the Opera Populaire. And it became my home for a time. I began, during this time, to study voice and architecture, as well as any other subject that suited my taste. Science, medicine, music theory, astronomy, mechanics…everything I learned, I learned from the books in the opera library as well as the well-appointed book sellers down the way that you tended to frequent my dear." She nodded. "And all the while, my intellectual curiosity was being sated; my spirit was being nourished and fed by the music of the opera.

"Your mother came here when she was seventeen, already a very accomplished dancer in her own right. She was a few years older than myself, and I was drawn to her passion, her creativity in dance. She befriended me Megan when she chanced upon me one night walking the casement of the roof—I was not then nearly as proficient at stealth as I am now—and she has helped me through the years, conduct business with my solicitor and pass on praise and critiques of the opera to its various owners and managers that have come and gone.

"And the time came for me to leave, strike out and make my own way in the world." From his tone of Voice, Meg knew this was not to be a happy tale. "I have travelled, _ptichka_, to Germany, Italy, Russia, Persia, and parts of the Orient. I will not go into details for many of my travels were unhappy ones. The world was not kind, and I had learned how to counter such treatment at quite the early age." Meg realized he was talking about committing murder again. She shivered suddenly cold. He shifted and a blanket was thrown over them both.

"From China, I learned the usage of various herbs, roots, and draughts to treat things like colds, cuts, and injuries as well as a comprehensive knowledge of poisons. From Italy, I gained an appreciation for art and refined my knowledge of architecture. While in Russia, I performed as _the Living Corpse_, making my way across the country as a magician performing as a favorite to the Tsar and Tsarina. It was where my reputation as _the Angel of Death_ got its start. And then in Persia…well, in Persia, my dear, I met the daroga. He likes to refer to our time spent there as 'the rosy hours of Mazenderan'. A joke I assure you, for nothing could be further from the truth. It was there I learned how to be the most ruthless of assassins." Meg gasped, drawing slightly away.

"Yes, now Erik repulses his Megan. He will not lie to you, his heart. He killed; killed for pleasure, killed for payment. He killed or was going to be killed himself. That little room with all the mirrors in Erik's home. That, Megan, was one of the first torture chambers Erik ever designed. But it wasn't his last." Meg gulped, beginning to tremble. "Erik will not go into details with his Megan. Not because he would be afraid it would elicit pity, but because he is afraid that to do so would cause his Megan to never look at him the same way again. And Erik, well he is just selfish enough not to take that chance." Meg nodded, burying her head in the crook of his arm, and breathing deep; his soothing, familiar scent a balm to his words.

"And then Erik came back to Paris, Megan, and proceeded to teach a young dancer how to sing." A heavy silence followed his words. "And the rest Megan knows." His Voice was hushed once more.

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Meg closed her eyes. She was tired, so tired of denying the attraction she felt for him; so tired of repressing her emotions. "What is it you want for us, Erik? What are your expectations?" He shifted once more and then she was lying on her back blinking up into the darkness. She felt his breath ghost across her cheek; he was looking down at her.

And his ungloved hand came out of the darkness to hold her cheek. "I want to be yours and for you to be my own. I want us to be together, Megan.

"I know you are with Demidov. And Megan, he is perfect for you. His passion for your art is counter to your own. But he does not know you—truly _know_ you. He does not know the strong woman that I—your Erik knows—the woman that could kill a man and take down a gang of foolish young men intent on pursuing her. He does not know the foolhardy young woman who befriended a deformed recluse due to the generosity of her own heart. He does not know how much time you truly spend in the world inside your mind, enacting each and every one of your dreams, and that when you practice and perform on stage, it is an extension of that." His Voice broke. "But I do. _I do, Megan_." He drew her hand up and placed it on his chest and thumped it.

"This Demidov—he could make you happy. I know this, but I cannot let you go. You mean too much—and Erik is far too selfish." Her tears began to flow, and he caught each one of them, lowering his lips to her cheek, kissing them away." Meg gasped.

He was no longer wearing his mask.

"Yes, for you, Erik has removed his mask, Megan. For only you he would do this thing for how else is he to kiss you properly with its edge always in the way?" And he lowered his head and proceeded to do so, gently, reverently, bestowing little tingling kisses along her face, culminating in a pause at her lips. He held there, one beat, then two, and Meg lifted her head, closing the distance between them. And her hands drew his shoulders down until he was resting his weight upon her, and both of them groaned at the feeling.

"Erik."

"Erik loves his Megan very much." He kissed the lids of her eyes. "And if Megan would agree to love him even half as much, Erik would count himself to be among the most blessed of men." Meg's composure deserted her. She hugged him to her, burying her face in his neck. "You may now belong to Demidov, but you will always be Erik's little bird."

She shook her head, her voice mystified in the darkness."But Erik, I'm not _with_ Demidov." She felt him pull away and look down at her.

"But…but Erik saw you. He was kissing you, and you allowed it, my Megan."

She shook her head. "No, Erik. Nikolai. He knows that I— that I've already given my heart to another." She moved her hand until it rested once more upon his heart. "We are just friends. Friends and dance partners only." Meg felt him begin to tremble above her, and a drop of moisture fell on her cheek, then another. And she realized he was crying.

"Oh, Erik." Through the darkness, she reached out for the back of his head, absently registering he had removed his wig as well. And she brought his lips back down to hers being so very careful not to hurt his unfortunate face. She whispered, "Make love to me, please. I want to belong to you—only you. Make me yours."

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"Oh, my Megan." And his whispered Voice held the wonder and hope of a child. And she kissed him, tasting his tears as her hands began to slowly work the buttons at his collar. She knew he could see her, but she was having to rely primarily on her other four senses. It made the experience all the more real, all the more impactful.

The feel of his fingers as they began dexterously undoing the little pearl buttons that fell from her collar to her shirtwaist. The smell of him—spices, wood smoke, and damp from the cellars. The rustle of their clothes shedding layer by unhurried layer as each of them divested the other of garments. The taste of his kiss: each and every one a seeming surprise to him, as he never expected it when she sought out his lips, and he responded each time with a sense of wonder.

And then her dress and corset were gone, and she was only in her chemise and pantalettes. And his hands were reaching for her hair, and with a gentle tug, all of the pins in her hair came undone, causing the golden mass to ripple across her shoulders and down to her waist. He gathered handfuls and lifted the fragrant mass. And Meg's heart rose to her throat as she realized he was trying to smell her hair. "_Behold, you are beautiful, my love. Your eyes are doves behind your veil. Your hair is as spun gold that descends from the rays of the heavens_."

Meg swallowed the lump in her throat, instantly recognizing the verse he paraphrased. She gently kissed his mottled, mangled cheek, and he gasped when she whispered in his ear, "_You are altogether beautiful, my love. There is no spot in you._"

Moaning, he gathered her close, and they both of them held each other, drawing reassurance from each other's breath, the steady beat of their hearts. Meg's fingers went to the fine linen of his shirt; the only layer left before his bare skin would be exposed to her, and her fingers wandered to the last of the buttons, parting the linen and kissing her way down each inch of exposed skin as she removed the bit of cloth. His skin was a patchwork quilt of scars, divots, and burns, at least that's what it seemed to her questing fingertips in the dark. She bent and kissed a particularly vicious-feeling assortment, wondering what just had happened there and how much pain he had to have had to endure for each and every one.

He drew her lips away from his skin and placed a chaste kiss on her brow. All the while his fingers tugged at the top of her chemise, and the material parted and pooled to her waist. And she heard him moan.

Meg stood still as, with tentative fingers, he reached out and caressed her pebbled breasts gently, testing their firmness, their weight. His hands held them, treating them with reverent care that had Meg rising up and moaning softly into his chest. Laying her down below him once more, he removed her chemise completely, and with a tug, divested her of her pantalettes as well. Meg bit her lip, knowing she was exposed fully to his sharp-eyed scrutiny. "_Behold, you are beautiful, my love. Behold, _You. Are. Beautiful_._"

And he lay down beside her, drawing her close, running his fingers over her face, her breasts, and then gently down her abdomen, to rest in the nest of down just above her core. "Are you certain, Megan? Certain you want Erik to always be with you? There is no turning back once this is complete." His Voice held warning and a new note of almost strain.

Meg wished she could see his eyes!

In answer, she drew his hand down to where she ached so badly for him and heard him draw a gasping breath. "I am yours, Erik. And you are mine." Fumbling in the darkness, she found his lips and shivered in his kiss as his fingers moved to part her feminine folds. His clever fingers moved within her, dipping down into her moistness, and Meg gasped feeling one finger enter.

"That's right, my girl, my Megan, quicken for me." And his thumb touched her little pearl of flesh, stroking it tentatively, and Meg moaned, feeling herself—her center—begin to gather and ache. Something—some strange and wondrous feeling was occurring within her, and she—she didn't know what to do except cling to him amidst the gathering tide and float along in the rhythm he set. His other hand stayed at her breast, rubbing and squeezing at her nipple as his mouth rained little kisses down her face and neck, crooning encouragement with his Voice.

And then, he slowly parted and worked another finger inside her, and Meg gasped at the sensation of fullness. And he encouraged her hips to move and grind against him as she labored toward climbing a precipice; some never before imagined peak. And then she was shattering into a million tiny pieces of rainbow color on a gasp of delighted wonder.

She came back to hear him say, "That's right. That's it, my little bird. Fly, fly for your Erik." His fingers remained inside her, pulsing, keeping her grinding against his hand to give her little pleasurable aftershocks. Gently, he removed his fingers from her, and lifting, Meg heard him lick and taste them. His quiet Voice broke the stillness, "_How beautiful is your love, my bride! How much better is your love than wine! The fragrance of your perfumes than all manner of spices!_"

Drawing a shaky breath, Meg muttered, "Then _let_ _him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for my bridegroom's love is better than wine_." And taking his face in her hands, drew him down for a soul-searing kiss. She felt him quiver and quake, even as she tasted the soft, musky scent of herself on his tongue, and then Meg was reaching for the buttons at his trousers, and his hands were there, helping her.

And then finally. FINALLY! He was freed, and kicking off his pants, was exposed for her hand's perusal.

Meg was hesitant.

Hadn't her touch last time sent him into a fit of rage?

Biting her lip, Meg looked up at him questioningly. A hand reached through the darkness and grabbed her own, even as another caressed her cheek. "Touch me, _ptichka_. Let me feel your love." And gently, he drew her hand and placed it on him, and both of them drew a startled breath at that first bit of contact.

He let her explore him, running her fingers gently over his hard length and breadth, feeling him. And he took her hand and showed her exactly how he liked to be touched and where, and he moaned softly when Meg innocently thumbed the tip of him, spreading the bead of moisture she found there.

His hand stopped her progress, and Meg realized it—he was shaking. "Not too much, little bird. I want this—us— to last." And he removed her hand, kissing it and placing it by her waist once more.

And then his hands were again at her breasts, fondling and caressing them, his mouth drawing little tongue-flicking kisses on her nipples. And then one hand traveled lower, back to the core of her, testing and spreading the moisture found there, and Meg moaned softly in his ear, when he stuck his finger once more inside her and crooked it, finding a spot that had her hips bucking wild with abandon.

And then his thumb flicked and plucked her little bundle of nerves once more, and Meg shattered again, even as he positioned himself atop her, and began working himself inside.

He was big. Bigger than his fingers, and quickly coming back from bliss, Meg hissed at the invasion so foreign. "We shall have to take this easy, my Megan. You are so very small." His Voice was strained in the darkness.

There was a suction noise and Meg felt the tip of him enter. They both of them gasped, and slowly, he began working himself in and out, spreading their joint lubrication. Meg bit here lip, little beads of sweat dotting her forehead. It stung, feeling him enter her and leave her like this. But his little surprised gasps and whispered moans were well worth the momentary pain she was feeling.

It seemed to take an eternity for him to get deeper within her, and then he encountered her maidenhead. Meg closed her eyes tight and grit her jaw, trying not to think of the horror stories she'd heard about ripping, tearing, and hemorrhaging.

He bent down and placed a kiss on her brow, whispering lowly in her ear, "Never. Never, my Megan, could you outlive my love for you." And he thrust into her, swallowing her gasp of surprise and pain as he kissed her mouth, distracting her from the rending, tearing sensation in her loins. "That's it Megan, breathe, adjust to this, to us." And Meg did as directed, focusing on the sensations he was eliciting from his kiss at her mouth even as her body adjusted to the invasion of him embedded deeply within. "That's right. Oh, my girl. That's right. That's it." And he kissed the sides of her cheeks, tasting the tracks of her tears, and Meg moved slightly, adjusting position.

And Erik gasped and stilled, looking down at her. "Megan…" Her arms came around him, and Meg drew her legs up so that they were around his waist.

Gently, she urged him to move.

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Erik felt her legs wind around his hips, pulling him closer even as they were joined as closely as two beings could possibly be. She moved slightly, and he sucked in a breath, the sensation almost too much for him to take. Tentatively, he moved, and she hissed. He could not cause her any more pain. Not to satiate his own pleasure.

He began to draw out. "Don't you dare."

Her voice broke the stillness even as her feet crooked behind him, effectively pinning him to her. God, but her legs were strong. "Megan—" She rolled her hips experimentally, and he groaned, "I don't want to hurt you anymore."

"You will hurt me more if you don't." She moved her hips again, this time with more precision, and Erik grunted. "Seek your pleasure, my love." Her hand tentatively touched his cheek, and Erik leaned into the caress, even as he felt himself beginning to gather inside her. "Please."

One softly uttered word and his resolve broke. He shifted his hips, gently at first and drew a gasped breath. He would have liked to say that his focus remained solely on _her_—on her comfort, or discomfort as the case may have been, but it did not. It was like none of his imaginings. None of the varied books he read or even the rare dreams that featured himself and some nameless, faceless woman in an act of this nature could have prepared him for the reality of being sheathed in Megan's liquid warmth.

Tentatively, he adopted a rhythm, savoring the sensation. Her feminine passage was so tight, so warm; her muscles gripping him so completely. It quite overwhelmed. He built quickly, feeling himself begin to lose control, and with three successive thrusts, he was spilling himself within her as he groaned his release into her shoulder.

She gathered him close, even as he heard her slight gasp of pain as he withdrew. But then her hands were stroking his shoulders, his back, his head. And her lips were on his neck kissing him sweetly.

And Erik drew her up and gathered her close to him, so that her body was lying lengthwise across his own. And she tucked herself neatly into the crook of his arm. So quietly did she sigh when he drew the blankets around them. And then with a kiss to his scarred chest, she relaxed into the rhythmic rocking of the train and drifted to sleep.

His whisper broke the stillness in the night, "_Set me as a seal on your heart, as a seal on your arm; for love is strong as death. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a very flame. Many waters can't quench love, neither can floods drown._ For I am now yours, and you are now mine. My very own. Megan."

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_**A/N:**_ Oh, but I contemplated cutting this update in half and leaving it at an evil, smutless cliffie. But I did promise you smut, dear reader, and I do hope I delivered! Won't you please leave a review in the alms box to let this unassuming authoress know?

As an aside, I played fast and loose with some passages from _Song of Songs_; it is my favorite book in the Bible as it is all about romance.

_**DGM**_


	10. Part X

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The authoress would like to take a moment to thank each and every one of you that have taken the time to submit a review. Your kind words and support have quite overwhelmed!

Thank you,

_**DGM**_

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One Good Turn part X

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Meg awoke feeling tenderly sore in places she had never been sore before. She slowly opened her eyes to shafts of moving sunlight drifting through the cab through the slit in the curtains, and she surreptitiously felt for Erik's reassuring presence.

He wasn't there.

She looked behind her, around the car. Nothing. Wrapping herself in the blanket, Meg padded to the privy and knocked. She waited a beat then opened the door.

No Erik.

She gulped, and making her way to her to the door, tried to open it. She breathed deeply when she realized it was still locked. If he had left her, then he would have unlocked the door. That would have been logical. He still had her locked in, and Meg knew she should probably be offended by this, but the way she saw it right now, it was a comfort.

He was coming back.

She looked down at herself and grimaced. There could be no doubt about it; she had been thoroughly claimed last night. And he as well. She smiled wryly. Making her way to the privy, Meg set about tidying herself up as best she could with the washbasin.

They weren't married; at least, not in the traditional sense, but last night had felt like her wedding night. She couldn't explain it, but she felt joined to him, married to him. And she would absolutely kill for some hot water to take a bath right now.

Oh, but she ached!

Just then, there was a rustle outside the compartment door.

"Megan?"

Meg breathed a sigh of relief at hearing Erik's Voice. "In here." She wrapped herself more tightly in the blanket and peeked out.

Erik stood there, a cart with huge bucketfuls of steaming water sat beside him as did a huge breakfast platter fit for princes. She raised her eyebrows. He was dressed once more in his usual regalia of black slacks, white linen shirt, jacket, vest, and cloak. Meg blinked and did a double take. His face was that of an ordinary man's!

Squinting, she made her way from the privy to where he stood by the door. This close to him, she could obviously tell the lines of the mask from where they met his flesh, but at a casual glance, Erik would seem unremarkable, normal even.

Meg smiled at him, and it seemed as though he deflated a little, relaxing. And she realized he had been studying her just as thoroughly and had been literally holding his breath waiting for her response. His yellow eyes looked anxious, uncertain. Drawing a deep breath, Meg decided she would begin as she meant to go on. And rising up to her tiptoes, she kissed him sweetly where the corner of his mask met his lips. "Good Morning, love. Does this make number sixty-seven yet? "

His arms came around her holding her steady, and he looked at her, his expression wry. "Good Morning, Megan my dear. And no, I think it will take a lifetime to fill that particular quota."And she gasped as he picked her up and carried her bridal-fashion back to bed. "You, my love, are going to dine in bed this morning and then have a nice, relaxing soak in the tub. But first, drink your tea." Meg looked at him curiously. It was common enough knowledge that she preferred café au lait in the morning and had been known to be quite cross if none were to be had. He handed her a mug, and she sniffed it carefully.

She took a tentative sip, and while it was not altogether disgusting, it wasn't great-tasting either. She tried to refrain from showing a moue of distaste but was very afraid she missed the mark. Looking up, she found him watching her, laughter dancing in his eyes. "Do not try to spare my feelings on the matter, _ptichka_. If you think it tastes foul, let me know." His lips twitched; he was teasing her.

"Alright, yes. It's a bit errm..oily-tasting… …errm, what is it?" She looked inquiringly up at him as he drew a tray and began to ply it with foodstuffs.

"It is an infusion of Queen Anne's Lace, a naturally occurring method of contraception." He turned back to her and sat the tray on her lap. Meg finished the tea with a grimace, quickly grabbed a piece of sticky roll and began to chew.

Again, her brow wrinkled in thought. He drew a chair up near the bed and sat facing her, his hands between his knees, his eyes studying her carefully. "It prevents pregnancy, Megan." Meg coughed, choking on her roll, even as he handed some café to wash it down. "Surely you know that what we did last night could have had the potential to create a child?" This time the question was in his eyes, and she nodded, her face running the gamut from pale to blushing hot.

"Yes, I—errm, am aware of that Erik. Although, I must say the thought did not even cross my mind." Biting her lip, she studied her café as if it contained all the mysteries of the universe, and only looked up when she felt the gentle pressure of his thumb on her chin, urging her to meet his stare.

"It is not going to happen, little bird." his Voice hushed, "I have made sure of it." He pointed to the mug. "Besides, you are not even fertile at this time."

Again, Meg looked at him, a question in her eyes, "How do you—"

His lips twitched, "The chocolate torte, _ptichka_. You will begin craving it in three days. Now eat up, we have much to accomplish today."

Meg did as directed, but a thought was bugging her. "So, am I to drink this infusion daily?"

He nodded, "Yes. It is something that must be taken daily to yield maximum efficacy." He reached over and snatched a roll from the cart, taking a bite.

"And this means…you don't want children… …ever?" Casually, she cut into a rasher of ham, her eyebrows poised in inquiry as she looked at him. They could be talking about the weather.

He gave her a level stare. "No. We will never have children."

She nodded, feeling relieved to her very core, "Thank God!" She took a huge bite of ham and chewed, smiling up at him. "I mean children are great, don't get me wrong" she gestured with her fork, "but I've never seen myself as the mother-type." she shook her head and took a sip of café, "There are just so many other things I want to do, you know?" She paused when she saw the look in his eyes. It was predatory. It was lust-filled.

It made her insides ache.

"Ouch." She rubbed at her lower abdomen even as he got up and removed the tray from her lap. Bucketful by bucketful, he began filling the small copper tub in the middle of the floor, and then he bid her rise.

"Would you like me to wait outside, my little bird?" His tone was solicitous and accommodating, but Meg knew what he—what they both wanted.

She smiled cheekily and turning her back to him, began to unwind the blanket. "No, Erik. I find I need help washing my back." Dropping the sheet to pool below her, she looked at him over her shoulder, "—and my front." She waggled her eyebrows at him.

He growled lowly and picked her up even as she squealed in delight, but he sat her gently in the water. And Meg sighed as the water hit her sore and tender bits most deliciously. He placed her hair carefully over the lip of the tub, falling in a heap to sweep the floor below. And after removing his jacket, Meg watched as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, coming to kneel beside her, a bit of cloth and a fragrant bar of soap in his hands.

And his hands dipped below the water, wetting the cloth, and then he was working lather into her skin, most methodically and industriously. And Meg looked over to find him intent on his task, a look of sheer concentration in his eyes that she had only ever witnessed once before when he was composing. She couldn't help the bubble of laughter that broke free, but she quickly swallowed it, schooling her features and looking at him most seriously. He stopped what he was doing, and studied her, suspicious.

She smiled up at him, gesturing, "Please _do_ continue, _maestro_."

He narrowed his eyes, obviously trying to find the joke, but continue he did, and by the time the water had cooled, Meg felt so thoroughly scrubbed, she squeaked. Donning her robe, she walked over to him, and stated promising, "You know, _maestro_, I _am_ going to have to return the favor one day." Her hand travelled a little further south than propriety would dictate, and she smirked to feel his want for her through the fabric of his pants.

Gently grabbing her hand, he kissed her palm and then turned away, seating himself in one of the dining chairs and grabbing a book. "That is unlikely, _ptichka_. Now go get dressed. It is time to begin your tutelage of the Russian language and the country's customs.

Meg went over to him, kneeling down at his side. "Wait a minute. What?"

The book she thought he had picked up at random was a Russian to French primer. His eyes met hers over the cover. "Go. Get. Dressed." He nodded to her trunk, his eyes going immediately back to the book. Rolling her eyes, Meg rose to comply.

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Oh, but she was driving him to utter distraction!

Furtively, Erik watched as she shed her robe and began to don layer upon layer. Using her trunk as a prop, she pulled on her stockings, one firmly toned leg at a time, clipping them with a little silk belt she wrapped around her waist. Her full and rounded breasts swaying slightly with the movement, and Erik's mouth began to water.

Her pantalettes and chemise were next. And he was sorry to see her don both for that removed the very tempting sight her peaches and cream mounds of flesh. Her slip-button corset was pulled over her head, effectively cinching her tiny waist even further, and then a blue silk taffeta dress over it all to be complete with matching blue kidskin slippers.

And it hit him! Such sights were to be commonplace from now on!

Oh, but he did not ever think he would get used to seeing such delights.

She sat at his side and looked up at him, a question in her eyes, "Well, maestro, where do we begin?"

He blinked, coming back to himself and gestured to the book he held, "This is the Russian, or Cyrillic, Alphabet." He watched as she turned the book and looked over its pages. Slowly, he began speaking, interspersing his French with Russian, and gesturing so his meaning would be clear. "You will learn to _govorit_ and hear it better if you hear _russkiy yazyk_ spoken to you. And so, until you become proficient, _ptichka_, I will begin to progressively speak in Russian until we are conversing in Russian only. And I urge _vy_ to respond in kind, no matter how long it takes you."

She nodded, her eyes narrowed in concentration. "_Ya ponimayu."_

He must have looked at her in some surprise because she smiled slightly. "Nick and Valentina have been teaching me small phrases here and there for the last month. Okay, so you want me to learn progressively via immersion?" He nodded and blinked again; she was quick, his little bird.

And so, they whiled away the morning and early afternoon with Megan learning the building blocks of the Russian alphabet and its sounds as well as a beginner's core vocabulary. Lunchtime came and went and still he taught, and she listened, responding as best she could in Russian where able.

It was only when the sun began to set, filling their little cab with golden light, that he realized a few things about his Megan.

Her thirst for knowledge rivaled his own when it came to a subject in which she was passionate. Although she was by no means gifted when it came to hearing another language spoken, she was blessed with a certain ear and amount of talent for it, and he could envision her speaking the language as well as a native in time.

Also, one of them was going to have to look after the other because the both of them had a tendency towards single-minded pursuit which could prove disastrous if left unattended. Erik closed the book they had been using with a snap of finality.

"Oh, but—" He held a finger up to her mouth and shook his head, staying her protests.

"It grows late, and you need to eat, _ptichka_."

"Yes, but I've got just one more li—" He scooped her up out of the chair to her laughing chagrin and set her on her feet.

"You have not even run through your positions today, Megan. Just because we are aboard a train is no excuse." His chiding tone brooked no protest. "I'll fetch dinner, you stretch." Her swift kiss on his lips took him by surprise, and it was with a small grin on his mouth that he left her.

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As she ran through her positions using a straight-back chair as her barre, Meg contemplated her change in status. What was she to him? pseudo-wife? partner? mistress? She wrinkled her nose. She liked partner best, but it seemed she was destined to always be one step behind him, at least intellectually. My God, but he was brilliant!

But whenever she would tell him, he would remind her that she was younger than him, less experienced. She sighed. Perhaps he had it right when he called them collaborators … she could deal with being his _life-time collaborator_. She smiled at the thought, liking the whimsy of it.

Theirs would never be a traditional relationship, of that she was certain. There would be no dinner parties or boring soirees out with friends. Definitely no children.

Meg tilted her head to one side, bending deeply in _plié_, trying to assess if she felt any sadness at the thought.

She shook her head. No. She honestly had never given having children a thought. She supposed there was some kind of nebulous idea out there about finding a husband, but more often than not, in those little meandering fantasies, she and her husband traveled the world while she performed.

With Erik, there would be intellectual debate, conversation, and curiosity. And he was willing to teach her so much... she bit her lip. But the question remained, just what did she have to teach him in return?

Getting up from her stretches, Meg parted the curtain and looked out the window, watching the scenery go by. She could just discern through the gathering darkness snow-capped mountains in the distance. They must be in to Germany by now, surely.

Unbidden, the thoughts from this morning's bath came to her.

He had been so earnest, so focused on 'getting it right', on pleasing her. It had been wonderful to feel that much of his attention, his sole focus, specifically placed on her.

Just what could she do for him?

The thought came in a flash, and she gasped even as she blushed to the roots of her blond hair. Erik had much to learn about human interaction and relationships. And they both had much to learn in this new arena of play so fresh and foreign to them both.

Oh, how Meg wished she had borrowed those marriage manuals from Genevieve when she offered! She quite missed her opportunity to learn of sexual congress between men and women from a perspective other than her own or her _collaborator's_.

Meg giggled. What would Erik think of her label for them? Grabbing her robe, Meg hurriedly began shedding layer upon layer of clothing.

She left on her stockings and heeled house slippers in deference to the cold, but everything else, she removed until she was quite in the altogether save stockings, garter belt, slippers and robe. Moving her chair until she was by the pot-belly stove, Meg grabbed the Russian to French primer, and crossing her legs in front of her, she opened the book to the chapter she was working on and set out to wait.

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She didn't have to wait long. Erik returned moments later with a loaded platter, quietly entering and closing the door, and then he stopped short when he saw her.

Meg schooled her features to impassivity, continuing to calmly read. She could see in her periphery that she was quite the subject of his sharp-eyed scrutiny. Feeling a kindling of desire, she finished the page she was working on, and licking her finger, reached to turn the page… but slowly, as she crossed one well-toned calf in front of the other, the robe exposing her to the thigh as she pointed and arched her foot.

He still had not moved; she was unsure if he even breathed so quiet and still was he. But she had charted her coarse and set sail, and she would see this through.

She yawned slightly, not the least bit tired, but it gave her an excuse to get more relaxed in the chair, and she did, uncrossing her legs in a very unlady-like fashion and slouching slightly in the chair using her slippered heels for balance. The closure of the robe just _accidentally_ having fallen away revealing the side of her rounded bosom for his perusal.

She heard a small gasp, and it was all she could do to keep reading. But she did begin to blush delicately, and her blush traveled all the way down to her exposed chest. She cocked her head to the side and sounded out a particularly vicious-looking tangle of words. _Vyrazit' volneniya ili zhelaniya_

"To express excitement or desire." She jumped. He had moved until he was behind her, his hands lightly resting at her shoulders as his Voice whispered in her ear, turning her liquid in an instant. "Dressed for bed so early, _ptichka_?" He nuzzled her neck, and she shivered.

"With you here, can you blame me?" He growled into her neck, setting her entire body to shiver. His arms came around her, drawing her up against him.

"Put down the book, _ptichka_."

"Gladly."Meg tossed it aside and turned in his arms until she was facing him. Hesitantly, she put her hands on the flesh-colored mask, and biting her lip, asked with her eyes if she could remove it. He looked sad for a moment and then shook his head.

"No." His hands came up to hers removing them, kissing them, and then placing them at her sides. "Come dinner is growing cold." A nameless disappointment was born in that moment, but Meg tried not to let it bother her or their evening together.

"What are your plans once the train has arrived, Megan?" He had again presented her plate for her and poured her a glass of wine.

Meg picked at her chicken, not really hungry. "That depends on you, doesn't it Erik? I mean, I'm supposed to meet Nikolai and Valentina at the station, but I can't really do that _now_ can I?" She took a sip of wine, shrugging.

He looked at her curiously, "Why ever not?"

Meg set down her fork, looking at him as if he were a particularly dim-witted child, "Erik. I thought the entire point of you journeying with me was to take me back with you to the Populaire. Not that we've discussed it, mind, but—"

She shrugged again, feeling her good humor begin to evaporate.

He wiped his mouth with his napkin and rose, coming to where she sat. She watched as he knelt before her, studying her, his yellow eyes narrowed in thought. At length, he stated slowly, "The entire _point_ of this journey Megan, as you so put it, is to proclaim my love and devotion to you. Not to drag you back to the Populaire, _ptichka_. You have promised to partner this Demidov, and you will not break your word."

"But—"

"No 'buts'." He held a finger to her lips, quieting her protests. "Now, what are your plans?"

Meg watched as he returned to his seat once more, picking up his fork to resume eating. Her look held mystified wonder, "They are taking me to their familial estate, where I am told I shall be quite sequestered. Nick wants to prepare me for my debut in the Spring." She grimaced. "I imagine it will be quite rigorous; he's a demanding partner." Was it her imagination or did she just see a flash of jealousy in his eyes? She narrowed hers, "You do realize that is all Nick is to me, right Erik? …Erik?" She bit her lip, waiting on his response.

He nodded, setting down his napkin and pushing away from the table. "I do, _ptichka_. It still galls though. As much as I would like to be your everything, the man holds a claim on you I cannot." Meg's heart leapt to her throat. She got up from the table and making her way to where he sat, climbed in his lap.

He looked startled for a moment, and then his arms came around to hold her as she laid her head on his shoulder. "What of the Populaire and '_The Red Shoes'_?"

"Well, I have taken leave of the 'haunting' business for the time being. With my prima ballerina and ballet mistress abandoning ship, there does not seem to be much reason to stay." She kissed the exposed skin on his neck, his fingers playing with the filigree at her robed collar. "_The Red Shoes_ still needs a collaborative effort, and if you must know _ptichka_, I'm considering approaching this Demidov with the rights." Meg turned quickly until her legs straddled him on either side, her robe quite parting open to leaven nothing to the imagination. "But that will… perhaps… come… in… time." His Voice trailed to a hushed whisper as he looked down at her.

"Erik…" She could feel him stiffening beneath her, and experimentally, she rolled her hips. He closed his eyes on a quiet groan, letting his head list to the side. His hands began to knead the fabric of her robe where they held her at her waist. She continued to roll her hips, now experimentally front and back and then from side to side. He grunted, and Meg felt the hardening part of him begin to jump and quicken underneath her in counterpoint. "…Erik…" His eyes were slits of pleasure, his mouth a thin line as he watched her.

She pulsed her hips, giving little bouncing movements that ground against him and made her breasts bob and sway. She bent forward and gave him a pop kiss. "…take me to bed, maestro."

"As my little bird commands."

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**review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is welcome.**


	11. Part XI

One Good Turn part XI

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Four days. Four of the happiest Erik had ever known. Four days of tutoring her, learning more about her. Four days of her laughter and her gentle teasing of him.

And then the nights; the nights were something indescribable! She was so utterly, enchantingly eager to be with him—_with him_!

The only fly in the ointment was his mask—his wretched face. He refused to show it to her again; never mind her having seen his deformity previously. The only time he removed the mask was at night in complete darkness, and if she wanted to make love with the lanterns lit, the mask stayed on. He thought back to last night, a small smile inadvertently coming to his lips as he remembered.

They had been going over conjugations for hours; the both of them working through lunch and dinner together. And as Erik had the foresight to get both meals delivered to their car that meant they wouldn't starve.

He heard her toss down the pencil she was using and saw her scrub at her face tiredly, "That's it! I'm done." He looked at the translations she had completed, and the pile she still had left to do, and he gave her an arch look gesturing to her pencil. "Oh, no. Don't you even, maestro. Not today!" She matched his look for stubborn look, her chin jutting at an angle.

"Megan, the sooner those translations are complete, the sooner you can move on to something more entertaining. I know it's dry, _ptichka_, but it is necessary."

The next thing he knew, he was tumbled headlong to the floor, and she was on top of him, tickling him. He hadn't even known he _was_ ticklish. "I've had it, Erik!" she grunted above his gales and gasps of surprised laughter. She was skillfully adept at dodging his hands. "Enough is enough! No more Russian, tonight!" He groaned in capitulation, and she collapsed atop him in a heap, mumbling, "I mean it. If I hear another Russian word tonight, I won't be held responsible."

"You have my word, _ptich_—" her hiss cut him off," —Megan. No more Russian tonight."

She lifted her head and looked at him, "Thank God." And she had kissed him. And it had quickly escalated from there to loving caresses that ultimately had him gathering her skirts and unbuttoning his trousers. And then she was riding him to their mutual fulfillment right there on the wooden floor.

He contemplated the spot, and the small smile turning to a grin.

"Erik?" He blinked, coming back to himself. He found Megan looking at him, a knowing smile on her lips. "You must have been worlds away. I've been trying to get your attention for past five minutes." He rose and made his way over to her. "The train's stopped." Erik paused, blinking. So it had. "Nick said this might happen. Occasionally, the station-master needs to make equipment inspections and repairs to the train while in Minsk. I think that's where we are at any rate." She shrugged and wrinkled her nose.

"And how long do these _repairs_ usually take?" he asked, and she shrugged, leaning her back against his chest and drawing his arms around her. She looked up. "Nick said they like to travel the last leg from Minsk to St. Petersburg by day, so we will probably be here through this evening." Erik's mind churned.

At length, he stated slowly in beginner's Russian, "_I think it is time we put your newfound language skills to the test, Megan._" Her answering smile could have shamed the sun.

"_Really_?" she rejoined, also in Russian.

"_Da_." Turning, she laughed and embraced him, even as she broke away, and made to don her heavy cloak, hat, and muff. He likewise followed suit, and they made their way outside the cab. For Megan, this was the first time in four days, she had set foot outside.

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Early December in Belarus meant biting arctic cold, but the sun shone brightly, almost blindingly on the layer of snow as it covered the ground. They had checked with the station master; it seemed they would be there until early tomorrow morning. And so, as Meg watched Erik, bundled to the chin and wearing his flesh-colored mask, speak with a native in flawless Russian about the local attractions, she took a moment to think about all that had transpired in the four days since they had become lovers.

He was so incredibly passionate! And so willing to coax and teach her in all manner of things regarding their lovemaking. He was learning her body, he told her, every bit as thoroughly as he knew his own. And Meg was grateful for the many layers of clothing that now covered her face and neck because she was blushing to the roots of her hair as she remembered.

The night before last he had kissed her…had kissed her in the most intimate of places! Never had she heard of such being done. And after she had gotten over the initial shock of it, he had coaxed her, encouraged her to seek her pleasure, attain that height of bliss she had only ever encountered with him. And all the while, he spoke; his beautiful Voice, telling her how very much he loved and worshipped her. Showing her how very much her pleasure pleased him.

But all the while, she remained in the dark.

While he was getting to know her, her responses—her body— so well, she would have liked to have said the same of him, but it just wasn't true. She couldn't describe visually what the male part of him looked like. She still had yet to see him fully unclothed, and whenever she tried to broach the subject, he would direct her thoughts, _her hands_, elsewhere. It was frustrating, but worse than that, it just wasn't fair!

"Are you ready, my dear?" Meg looked down to find Erik holding his arm out to her. She took it, letting her thoughts fly away as she asked him haltingly in Russian where it was they were going.

Speaking very slowly in a blend of French and Russian so that she could understand, he began to walk, "The man with whom I spoke told us to visit the Russian Orthodox church of St. Mary Magdalene that was recently erected. He then suggested we visit the shops of Lenin Avenue and have dinner at a little restaurant near the Svislach River that serves authentic Belarusian fare. Finally, he suggested we attend the evening theatrical at the Minsk Theatre. It seems they are performing one of Leo Tolstoy's newest works. Tell me, _ptichka_, are you familiar with his _Anna Karenina_?"

And Meg nodded, narrowing her eyes to explain to him what she thought of the novel in as much Russian as she could. Talking as such, their arrival to the church took no time at all, and Meg drew up short in her defense of Anna's suicide when she saw it before them. "Oh, Erik!" she exclaimed, clutching at his arm, "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Yes, she is." Meg noticed he wasn't looking at the church; she blushed. "Come, _ptichka_, let us take time to meander for a time in Minskian art and architecture." And he led her through the vestibule to the cathedral proper, pointing out particular placements of stones and their individual groupings. Although Meg was no stranger to stained glass windows, seeing colored tiles on columns and walls was, indeed, a new experience. Erik told her it was in reminiscence of the art of the Byzantine era.

Meg thought it very colorful but ultimately very distracting. The priest was giving a brief homily, but she, like many others in attendance, could not focus on his words for all the opulence surrounding them. Erik led her out of the church by way of a little-used side entrance, and she gave him a questioning look. "Less crowds."

And he led her on to the shops of Lenin Avenue, and Meg had fun for a time window shopping and watching the various comings and goings of the townspeople as they went their varied errands. "Do you ever just look at people and make up their life stories, Erik?" Meg asked as she watched a harried mother and her young child squabble in the middle of the path they were traversing. Meg winced when the toddler's yells reached an ear-splitting crescendo.

"Hmm, yes. Although rarely do I drift in realms of fiction, my dear." He tsk'd. "The little boy we just passed is with his au pair. She is young and very inexperienced, and the child has been spoiled rotten."

Meg rolled her eyes, and directed their attention to a pottery shop displaying all sorts of crockery and bits of colored glass. "_Or_, he could be a changeling child from some legendary creature such as a troll or fairy, and he's been charged with plaguing the young woman who was cursed by an evil gypsy hag for some imagined slight. What do you think she did, I wonder, to warrant _that_?" They both looked over at the woman and child. He was now face down on the cobbled street, kicking and screaming in a tantrum that would have made her mother beat the child to within an inch of its life with her rattan cane.

In desperation, Erik directed them into the closest shop and closed the door; thereby drowning out the cries of woe.

"Ah, newlyweds! Would you like to have your portraits taken then?" Meg stared at the shopkeeper, barely able to discern the meaning behind the ancient man's words, and then she took a look around. Erik had inadvertently led them to a portrait-maker's. She looked up at him; the expression in his eyes was one of dread.

She bit her lip and met Erik's stare, replying in stuttering Russian, "My _husband_ no pictures will he take, sir."

"Ah, you are French, yes?" Meg nodded. The man smiled and began speaking slowly so she could understand. "Few men who enter my shop are willing. But it is so very important to chronicle special moments. And I can tell the two of you have only just married. You have that look about you." He gave a beaming, knowing smile, his blue eyes behind his thick spectacles a twinkle. Meg still only caught every other word he uttered, but she got the general gist. "For you, I will give a special price: two for the price of one today—" he pointed at Meg and wagged his finger, "You remind me of my Eliza."

Meg watched as he fondly stroked the timepiece he wore at his waist, and she examined it closer. The watch had a well-worn spot on it, as if it had been used by the man as a touchstone or talisman. "I will set two tin-types, the same picture; one for the gentleman to wear as a watch, and one for you madam to wear about your lovely neck."

The man took out a box of his finest wares and directed that they look them over. Meg gave them a general perusal but when she looked back at Erik, she noticed his expression was pained. She put down the watch she held, "I don't think we—"

"We'll take them both. The lady will have that locket there, and I will take this watch." Meg looked over at Erik in disbelief as he examined the watch she had just held.

"Really?" Meg asked in French, practically dancing in her joy.

He gave her a long-suffering but indulgent smile, "I will do what pleases you, _ptichka_, and this is a small thing my _zhena_ asks." Meg blinked at the use of the word—wife. He had called her his _wife_. She felt giddy and trembly, and absolutely radiant in her joy!

"There now, you see? Not so intractable is your new husband as he seems." The old man's eyes behind his thick-glasses sparkled. "The both of you stand just here. Yes, oh, but you are a tall one are you not? And to have married such a little slip of a thing." He said something in rapid Russian that Meg couldn't catch but had Erik's lips twitching even as his ears burned. "Yes, you are going to have to sit, sir. Here, in this chair. And madam, you stand at his back. Your right hand on his shoulder. Madam give us a small smile. Yes, there. Perfect. Now, don't move!" The old man went behind a tall box-looking contraption and underneath a dark cover. "Now one…two…three..." There was a flash and then another right after it. And then he was walking toward them, beaming. "My eyes—they are not so good anymore, but oh, you are lucky we have this new-fangled contraption here. It takes images in seconds. Why, I still remember using the Daguerreotypes! That tells you how very ancient I am, my dear! Oh, but go! Go the both of you and get some lunch. When you come back, the tin-type pictures—they will be set and ready for you to pick them up."

And waving them off, the little man disappeared behind the little black curtain in the back of his shop.

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_**A/N:**_ It is so unfortunate that this little authoress cannot live in the imaginary world of her creation but must instead split her time between husband, cats , and (gasp!) _working for an actual living wage_! As an aside, yesterday was spa day for the authoress—facial, massage, yoga, and quality time with my d3adlyg33k—by the end of yesterday, I was exhausted, believe me! ;D And so, I didn't get as much written as I would have liked. However, I will post part II of Erik & Meg's day spent in Minsk tomorrow afternoon.

_**DGM**_


	12. Part XII

One Good Turn part XII

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"Would it please you, Megan, if we were to marry?" Erik asked her off-handedly. His casual proposal snuck upon her as she was eating a bite of chocolate torte, and it was all she could do not to choke. She sputtered, quickly sipping a bit of her café.

They were seated in a corner nook of a little café near the park, situated quite comfortably near the café's fire place, for which Meg was profoundly thankful. Erik had looked at her knowingly when she ordered a cup of soup and a slice of chocolate torte, and she had stuck out her tongue at him.

They had been discussing more on the works of Tolstoy as they ate, and Meg had felt such a warm glow of contentment settle over her as she listened to Erik's opinion, she swore it was visible to all who looked their way.

After wiping her mouth with her napkin, she stated uncertainly, "Was that just a proposal because I don't really see you as the type to want to pledge before God and man your troth. Am I wrong?"

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "In this instance you may yet be. Tell me, are you particularly religious?"

Meg wrinkled her nose, "I probably should be, and Lord knows Maman tried, but no, I don't have a particular affinity for the Church or any of its affiliations. Why?"

"Because _ptichka_, a civil ceremony will suffice, and we would be bound legally as man and wife if not by _God_." The way he uttered the last made it clear how little use he found that particular subject. "However, Megan, I cannot offer you my last name."

Meg blinked and looked at him curiously. In all their many and varied conversations, in all their meanderings together, it had honestly never occurred to her to ask him what his surname was. "What is it, and why can't you offer it?"

He grit his jaw, and Meg knew he was growing angry, but somehow, she did not think the anger was directed at her. "I do not know my family name because the knowledge was withheld from me." His yellow eyes flashed fire. "I was disowned upon birth. The only reason my mother kept me as long as she did was to appease a very misguided sense of Catholic guilt. You see, Megan dear, she thought that if she prayed enough, beat me enough, had us both fast and starve enough, that the ugly in me would miraculously heal itself."

Meg looked at him, stricken. She put down her fork with a clatter and made to grab for his hand. He pulled away, folding in on himself. "And so Megan sees, Erik has no use for _God_ or a church wedding. Nor can he offer her his name. And so, he asks, would it please Megan if she and Erik were to marry?"

Meg took a moment to compose herself. Erik talking in third person was never a good sign. Each time he did it, his emotions were running high, and it seemed he was a bit less than stable. The fact that he would not let her touch him was also another troubling sign of impending _Opera Ghostness_, as she was learning to refer to these episodes.

Meg couldn't, not for one moment, forget with whom she was dealing; not even after everything they shared!

She weighed her words carefully, making sure that what she said suited her thoughts. "No, Erik, a church ceremony is unimportant to me. I need no church-sanctioned piece of paper to prove my love and commitment only to you." She licked her suddenly dry lips, "Look. The way I see it, you already are my husband, my _muzh_, and our vows were made the first night we became lovers."

Tentatively, Meg reached for his hand once more, gratified when he let her slowly take it, and she began to stroke his closed hand gently, reassuring him. "We _claimed_ one another, Erik.

"So, alright, our relationship will never be a _traditional_ marriage, but does that make it any less real, any less valid? And if the only reason that you aren't willing to offer me your name, maestro, is because you don't have one, then we need to remedy that forthwith. You are a composer, after all, and as a general rule, they are _known _only by their last names. The _great_ ones anyway." She gave him a small, hopeful smile, nudging his calf with the toe of her boot to fall in with her gentle, light-hearted teasing.

His expression still looked stormy, but Meg could see the more rational side of him begin to emerge. She decided to just treat him as she normally would. With luck, he would begin to act normally as well.

Gently letting go of his hand and taking up her fork once more, Meg adopted a thoughtful expression. "hmm… how about Ribaldi? Erik Ribaldi. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?" Acting as if she hadn't a care in the world, Meg took a bite of torte and chewed thoughtfully while looking at him. He was looking at her curiously, "The name is from my favorite fairytale."

His eyes crinkled a slight bit, and Meg knew he was coming 'round. "And here I thought _The Red Shoes_ was your favorite, _ptichka_." There was warmth once more in his Voice, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Meg tsk'd and waggled her fork at him, breaking off a big bite of torte and holding it up for him to take. Hesitantly, he opened his mouth, and Meg fed him the morsel. "They're all my favorites, maestro! But _Rigoletto_ was indeed the one I loved the most when I was a child."

He looked at her laconically as he chewed, "_Rigoletto_, really my Megan?"

She shrugged and smiled cheekily up at him, "I can't help it if in this case life imitated art." she licked her fork with a little more attention than strictly necessary, and saw Erik's eyes focus on her lips, specifically her tongue swirling along the pronged tip. She gave a final swirl and then slowly licked her lips. "Delicious. So what now, maestro?" Meg nearly giggled to see him so transfixed, and then he blinked.

"We are—are you ready to go, Megan?" Not waiting for her reply, he threw a wad of bills on the table and quickly stood. Then he was at the back of her chair, ushering her up and out of the restaurant into the chilly Minsk air.

"Erik, what on Earth—" Meg was tugged until she was in the secluded alleyway outside the restaurant. She gasped as he lowered his mouth immediately to hers, his tongue thrusting into her as his arms went around her, holding her to him. The kiss was passionate, it was violent. It was exactly what he needed and Megan gladly gave it, parrying each thrust with a tender stroke from her own smaller tongue.

At length, she felt him pull away and lick the corner of her lip, and then he gently returned once more to her mouth, kissing her more gently, less urgently. He then leaned his masked head on her forehead and breathed in deep. "You had a morsel of chocolate—I had been staring at it…" he stated this as one would a confession, and it struck her absurdly silly.

She laughed, hugging him to her. "Oh, you _never_ need an excuse, Erik. Feel free to ravish me anytime." And standing on her tip-toes, Meg reached for his mouth and gave him a lingering kiss. "Now, come on! I want to see how our portraits turned out." Her arm tucked under his, Erik escorted them back to the portrait-maker's.

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"Ah, so you've both been fed and watered, I see." His bespectacled eyes twinkled knowingly. "But there can be no better food than love, yes?" He removed a case from the bottom of his display cabinet. "The tin-types did turn out rather splendid if I do say so myself." And he gestured for them both to draw closer as he opened the case.

Meg gasped in delighted wonder.

The miniature portraiture showed Erik in his suit looking severe and unsmiling. The lines of the flesh-colored mask _just_ visible if one squinted and looked for them. He looked truly as any other man: ordinary. Neither handsome, nor plain with a noble, almost regal bearing about him. Upon looking closely, however, Meg could just discern a lightness, a gentleness about his eyes. Her heart gave a jolt at the sight. She stood beside him, a small smile and her blond hair a clear relief to his severity, her hand placed _just so_ on his shoulder.

It was very clear the couple was very much in love.

The watch the portraiture was placed in was beautifully crafted, and although Meg really hadn't had a chance to study it before, she took the time to do so now. It was made of purest gold; the watch face itself white with black lettering and roman numerals running 'round encased in heavy polished glass. The outside was engraved on the top with a small golden rendering done with exact precision. She examined it closer; it was a charming park scene. A pond was in the background with a few wisps of clouds and one solitary bird flying o'er.

But it was the foreground that interested her the most; a violin stood leaning against a music stand. Sheet music at the ready as if waiting for the un-rendered phantom musician to take up the bow and begin to play. "And the locket. Does madam like the locket?" The shop-keeper asked anxiously.

Meg took a moment to look it over.

Erik had chosen a locket made of purest gold that was in the shape of an oval. The design was simplistic, unornamented. However, the top was engraved with little embellishments that swirled and moved elegantly. It opened with a little snick, and Meg's heart jumped. There was an engraving on the left inner side.

_**My beloved is mine and I am hers. **_

_**Evermore,**_

_**Your maestro**_

"Oh, Erik!" she turned to find him watching her anxiously.

"Does that mean you like it, _ptichka_?" His expression was nervous, unsure.

She hugged him excitedly, "Like it? I may never take it off! Put it on me quickly!" She turned her back to him and saw the shop-keeper smile softly as he handed the locket to Erik. He turned away from them ostensibly to prepare the bill of sale. She felt the gentle, dear weight of the locket settle between her breasts, and then his thumbs were caressing her neck lightly. She looked up to find him looking down at her.

She smiled softly, and he lowered his head, giving her the most tender-sweet of kisses. Meg looked up to find the shop-keeper turned towards them, an indulgent smile on his lips. "How you two remind me of my Eliza and myself! The light of my life is she. It seems only yesterday that we married. Yesterday. And how time does fly!" His blue eyes crinkled at the corners. "So savor it, each and every moment together."

After donning his watch and fob, Meg watched as Erik tried to pay the man double his asking price, but the shopkeeper shook his head, staying firm, taking only the bills for the fee requested. "I won't hear of it! I won't." Smiling and shaking his head, the man ushered them out of his shop. Meg saw, however, that Erik secreted the remaining money in the shop-keeper's jacket pocket while the man was saying his goodbyes to her.

Impulsively, she hugged the man. "Thank you so very much, sir!" He looked dazed for a moment, and then smiled delightedly waving them off.

Meg turned and looked at Erik. "Come on, my dear." He offered her his arm, his eyes agleam with love. "It grows late, and we have a performance to attend.

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The Minsk Theatre was not nearly as opulent or as well-appointed as the Populair, but Erik found he could not complain. The acoustics were passable if not perfect, but the acting was indeed first-rate. He looked over at Megan, the golden locket he had given her glinted softly in the theatre lamplight as they waited for the production to begin.

They had dined at the restaurant the man this morning had recommended, sampling true Belarusian cuisine. Erik had found he did not care for the taste of the little potato cakes overly much. But Megan had indeed fallen in love with them, joking that it was a good thing they were just passing through as she would be round as a little dumpling if she lived here.

"You? Never, my dear." He had watched as she took another lusty bite of the _draniki_, her eyes closing in her pleasure, and he had felt a wave of desire so strong pierce him at that moment, he had almost groaned with it. Her _joie de vivre_ over new experiences was unrivaled by anyone he had ever encountered. Each and every thing she savored, urging him to share in her excitement, her passion as well.

Had he ever been that way? Had he ever been so idealistic, so embracing of what the world had to offer?

He shook his head. No, definitely not. He had learned almost from infancy never to reach so high, never to expect too much from the world as it had only caused him pain.

But Megan? She was completely open to new experiences, new pursuits. Just as she had jokingly told him at dinner, "I'll try anything once, maestro." The chit had then given him a saucy wink as she sampled her sambouk, pronouncing it a bit damp but palatable.

Erik had spent the rest of the meal dreaming of experimental ways of sampling her.

And as they waited for the curtain to rise, Erik looked at the little woman beside him and thought that at this moment here, holding her hand, he was the happiest and luckiest of men. And just at that moment—that perfect moment—she turned and smiled to him, and his heart broke free, galloping with the love he felt for her—his Megan—at his side.

The curtain rose to resounding applause, and the limelight caught center-stage upon a man dressed as a wealthy merchant. "Good evening ladies and gentleman. Tonight, may I please present for your pleasure, the world debut of Leo Tolstoy's play 'The Living Corpse'." Megan's hand jumped in his, and grimacing, Erik looked over.

Her other hand was at her throat clutching her locket tightly; she had gone white as a sheet.

She leaned in close and whispered to him, "Erik. Please, let's leave. I want to go back to the train."

He drew his arm around her shoulder in a gesture that she should sit back, return to her seat. He shook his head, and directed his Voice so that it was heard by her ears alone. "Yes, it is true. I have performed in Russia as 'The Living Corpse' years and years ago, but the odds of Leo Tolstoy having encountered me are quite minimal _ptichka_. You may rest-assured, whatever the subject-matter of this play, it is not based upon me." She still looked uncertain as the man on stage began to speak, extolling Tolstoy's works and genius, and she shook her head, making to rise. He urged her back with a gentle but firm hand to her shoulders, "Megan, calm yourself. It will be alright. Just sit back and _watch. the. play_."

She still retained a hold on his hand, but Erik could tell she was not happy with this turn of events. He prayed that his words of reassurance to her weren't false.

Oh, but the performance was filled with the irony that was so prevalent in Erik's life. It had everything—everything that Erik had been trying to forget—jealousy; a love triangle involving the protagonist, his wife, and an old childhood friend that ends up being a rival for her affection. The play even had gypsies. Gypsies!

He should have listened to Megan. That thought kept playing over and over in his mind as he watched parts of his life unfold on stage.

The protagonist, having been overcome by jealousy, leaves his young wife thereby forcing her into the arms of the very man he thinks she secretly loves.

And so, he runs instead to a gypsy encampment.

While there, he has an affair with a young gypsy dancer named Masha. His wife, presuming him dead, marries her childhood friend, and when he learns of this, the man leaves the gypsy girl, and immediately returns to his wife, and she is charged with bigamy as well as arranging for her husband's disappearance.

While the man refutes these claims, the court still tells her she must either give up her new husband or face exile in Siberia. The man, mad with rage, gathers the courage to shoot himself and end his life, thereby freeing his wife to be with the man he thinks she loves.

And crying hysterically, the wife proclaims to all that she has always—will always— love and want to be with her husband.

And then the curtain was drawn.

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_**A/N**_: Ah, but happiness and perfection are only temporary states are they not? Would that one could dwell there evermore, but alas!

The authoress would like to thank those of you who continue to offer encouragement and support with your messages and reviews. It does help ever so much to have feedback and helps keep the creative juices flowing!

_**DGM**_

**review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is most welcome.**


	13. Part XIII

One Good Turn part XIII

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Erik looked down. He should have hired them a handsome cab to take them back to the train, but she had refused, saying she had wanted—needed air.

Megan was clutching his hand tightly, but what was even more surprising was that he was holding her hand just as tight. "Megan…" He had no idea what to say to her. He had no idea if she even really understood what had transpired on stage; the play had been performed in conversive Russian.

"The parallels were striking were they not?" Erik studied her, specifically her tone of voice. It was high and brittle, her color still had yet to return.

"Megan—"

"And to have it end so messily with his suicide." She tutted. "Tolstoy does love using _that_ device, doesn't he?" And she laughed, the sound hard and grating to Erik's sensitive ears.

"_Ptichka_—"

"Tell me, Erik. Do you ever think we will be free of reminders of _her_—of them. Tell me truly?" He stopped their forward progress, pulling them away from the street into a side alley.

"Megan, calm down." He drew her to him, hugging her tight. "Sometimes a play is just a play, my dear." She snorted. "It is true. And my past is truly just that."

He felt her head shake gently on his chest, "No it's not. How can it be when I sometimes sense her ghost all around us? She is my sister, Erik—in everything but blood— and I am scared, so very scared—" she quickly bit off what she was saying, and Erik's yellow eyes narrowed seeing much in the darkness.

"You are scared of what, _ptichka_?" his Voice was gentle and soothing as he held her.

"Nothing, it doesn't matter." He watched as she drew away from him and dabbed at her tears with her sides of her gloves. "It's just the onset of my monthly blues. Come on, I'm freezing." Grabbing his hand, she began walking towards the train once more.

And Erik had the foreboding feeling that he had just missed some integral piece of subtext, some critical information in regards to his mate, and he couldn't for the life of him think what it was.

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Of all of the joys of being with Megan, and there were ever so many, the greatest of all was waking to holding her in his arms.

No longer was he traveling this life alone, and he was reminded of that each morning. She was beside him—would always be there beside him— and the thought always made him wake with a feeling of delighted wonder.

He was always the first one to rise for he would always feel her beginning to stir from sleep. He would complete his morning ablutions, don his mask and clothes, and be waiting for her when she awoke. This morning was no exception to their nearly week-old routine, save one. She had awakened before him, and turning in his embrace, looked up at him in the dull morning light. He quickly averted his unmasked face from her view.

"Erik—"

"Megan—Do not. Please. _Do not_." He felt her touch him gently on his scarred shoulder. He closed his eyes.

"Erik, please—"

"You are asking the impossible of me." She moved until she was staring straight at his deformity. He could feel her stare; he buried his head in the pillow coverings.

Still, he felt her gentle touch on the back of his skull; he tried not to flinch. "No, I'm asking as is my right as your partner and woman who loves you. Please, love. Let me see _you_—all of you."

"Erik is—" he felt her hand come to press tenderly to his lips, halting his speech.

"_You_ are beautiful beloved. There is no spot in you. Remember, love?" Slowly, she began to peel away the bedclothes, and he began to tremble.

It was ridiculous, this fear.

Ridiculous, he knew, to give her so much of himself but deny her this knowledge—the sight of him fully exposed to her scrutiny.

But he couldn't get past the degradation, the inborn shame that was instilled in him upon his unfortunate birth. Her hands stilled and just held him, his exposed back. And tenderly, she began running her fingers up and down, sometimes trailing them along his spine, sometimes following a meandering journey of his lash marks, and sometimes she followed no discernible pattern at all.

The sweetest torture; her touch—it was more than tolerable but less than pleasurable for he was not used to having another touch him so. But she was trying to give him pleasure, administering it gently, and he trusted her.

This thought alone caused him to roll over slightly so that he was fully exposed to her—to the light. Her hands stilled momentarily, but then resumed their tracing meanderings undisturbed, not coming any closer to any part of his exposed face.

Still, his jaw and hands were held stiff, riddled with tension. His eyes shut tight.

Slowly, she worked each hand open, bending to gift each palm with a kiss and then once more tracing up and down his body, lightly gliding her soft fingertips across his torso, thighs and arms. And Erik did begin to relax, eventually gentling to her caress.

Still, she did not touch his face.

She had mapped it many a time before. Her hands knew each and every contour, each horrid, grotesquely-misshapen spot. Her hands knew which areas could tolerate being touched and which would inflict unintentional pain. She had made a study of it, he knew, in the dark. And he had also noticed that when they were intimately joined, her hands would inevitably stray to hold him at the back of his head and to the side of his neck where the scarring and skin degradation was mostly kept at a minimum.

But perhaps she could not bring herself to touch his face now that she was looking at it in the unforgiving light of day? Perhaps, the sight of it proved too much for her to take? His eyes flew open to meet her own, needing to know the truth.

What he saw made his breath catch and his heart skip. The look of utter love and acceptance on her own perfect face humbled him, left him bared fully before her, not in shame but in love—as her equal—her mate. There could be no more masks between them now, he knew. He would never have to hide; never have to shield himself from her scrutiny. For she loved him; grotesquely misshapen, scarred and damaged as he was—she _loved_ him.

Reaching, he drew her until she was lying fully supine upon him, and she laid her head upon his chest, right over the beat of his heart. And her fingers still traced meandering patterns on his skin, this time moving toward his face, loving worshiping him with her hands. As for him, Erik relished feeling the velvet-soft texture of her back and sides beneath the loose nightgown she wore. Her feminine curves pressed so temptingly against his own flesh.

Her caresses became more heated, more arousing in their intent, and Erik smiled, letting her feel and examine him as he quickened to life in her hold. She cupped him and drew him into her little palm. Her hands, already so very knowledgeable in knowing just what he liked—how he liked to be touched— rubbed him. She smirked, a thoughtful gleam in her eye, as she made her way down until she was eye-level with his staff. "Megan—"

"Maestro, surely there is an equitable action for me to perform to counter what you have done on previous occasion for me." She bent and swirled her tongue around the tip of him. His breathless "oh." of surprised wonder made her smile. "And what is this act called, Erik love?" her tone, just as her tongue, was teasing. God! She was going to be the death of him! She rained kisses down the side of him, pausing to study intently the underside of his tip, sucking ever so slightly. Another 'oh' of wonder escaped him.

His hands grabbed for the bedcovers, holding them tightly, just as he closed his eyes to better sense her lips and warm mouth encasing him. She drew his hands and placed them on her head, urging her to hold her as she performed this act. Groaning, he did so, gently cradling her skull as he felt himself start to gather for release. "Megan—"

She paused, "The name Erik?" He looked down. She was teasing him, the little minx! As he watched, her tongue darted out and licked his weeping tip. Squeezing his eyes shut, he climbed further.

"Fellatio." he ground out, and then she took him fully in her mouth once more and closing her lips tightly, applied suction. "Ah, Megan—"

He had seconds only. His hands tightened involuntarily in her hair as, with a final swirl of her tongue, he flew apart. Quickly he pulled away from her warmth with an audible 'pop' and spilled himself in the bed clothes instead of her mouth, loudly groaning his release. He felt her move until she was behind him, holding him to her, and stroking his sensitized skin. At length, she broke the stillness, "Why did you pull away?" He turned and drew her until she was pillowed on his chest once more, his arms cradling.

"Because, my dear, I cannot help but think it uncommonly rude." She laughed sweet and low, and he looked down. Her eyes were sparkling. And her lips, her dear, sweet succulent lips were swollen slightly from her ministrations on him. Erik felt himself stir again and rolled his eyes at his adolescent behavior. Besides, his Megan was indisposed. He sighed, only a few days, and he would be able to be with her again. And perhaps someday, he would tell her that in some cultures, it didn't matter.

"_Uncommonly rude_? Really, Erik." She tsk'd. "Well the next time it happens, _don't_; I _want_ to taste you." And moving lithely, she kissed his lips with another 'pop' and then rolled out of bed, leaving him looking at her in bemused wonder.

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"So when will I see you again?" The train had been gradually slowing as they both finished making their preparations to depart. Meg felt apprehensive. Oh, she knew she wasn't saying goodbye…not really. But things would be different once they left their little travelling abode, and she couldn't help but feel nervous at the change.

She felt Erik's arms wind around her as he pulled her to rest against his bony chest. "Do not worry, Megan. I will never be far from you." She looked up and met his earnest, loving gaze. "You will stay with the Demidovs as discussed, and I will see you soon." He bent and placed a light kiss on her lips, using the peculiar power of his Voice to whisper straight in her ear, "_You can consider that a promise if you like, and a promise sealed with a kiss is irrevocable._" He tapped her nose, using the words she had uttered so long ago upon their first kiss.

Meg felt her knees go weak. He held her steady and kissed her neck, she groaned. "Erik—"

"I know, _ptichka_, I am making it worse for myself as well." He drew her hand back until she stroked the hard length of him.

The train stopped.

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**review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is most welcome.**


	14. Part XIV

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**A/N:** I would like to dedicate this update to QueenBtchoftheUniverse. She gave me the encouragement I needed to revisit my story and really end things for Erik and Meg properly. It is time.

Readers, you may consider this chapter penultimate if you like.

Thank you,

_**DGM**_

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One Good Turn part XIV

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Meg's debut was only hours away and she was busy breaking in her new pointe shoes, sewing new pale pink ribbons on the sides; the simple dancer's chore helped center her mind and focus her thoughts. It had been three months since she had arrived as a guest of the Demidovs. And during that three month period, she had indeed cried, bled, and wished mercilessly for Nikolai to die a slow and torturous death. But damn if her performance wasn't sensational! And Nikolai, bless him, had been right; they were going to take St. Petersberg by storm!

Madam Giry had arrived earlier that week and was busy observing and overseeing the inner workings of the ballet company as well as getting to know the cast and crew. Already there was talk of the black-haired harridan from France that would work her dancers like slaves and hound them twice as much but the company's performances shown the more brilliantly for it and so the complaining was kept to a good-natured minimum.

Meg smiled as she remembered the day she arrived to the Demidov Manor. She had forgotten how much fun but also how exhausting being with Nikolai and Valentina could be. The both of them were so enthusiastic, so intense, and after having none but Erik's relaxed and reassuring company for the last few days, their personalities quite overwhelmed.

After a thorough tour of the house and grounds, after a formal dinner where she was introduced to every member and extended member of the family, they adjourned to a handsomely appointed drawing room that was furnished with all manner of the most modern and modish of conveniences. And Meg could barely keep her eyes open. "Ah, but the _kotenok_ is tired, Nikolai. We must send her to bed at once." Valentina came smiling over to her and drew her up. "There but you are indeed almost asleep on your feet. Come. We will get you situated in your room, and you shall rest."

Meg looked over at Nick. The light-haired Russian man was seated at the pianoforte, playing an assortment of pieces by Bach, his sister accompanying him on the cello. His fingers never left the keys though his thoughtful grey-eyed gaze remained fixed on her. "Yes, and sleep well _kotenok_ for tomorrow, we begin to train in earnest." He smiled viciously and she answered him with a wry smile of her own, nodding and bidding the rest of the family goodnight. Meg made her way wearily back to her room. What a day! And she was so tired and missing Erik.

Closing the door, Meg prepared herself for bed as usual and lay down. Dousing the lamp completely, she reminisced on her time spent with him, particularly sleeping next to him. She arranged her pillows until they approximated a body shape behind her. Still, it wasn't enough. God! They had been together less than a week. How could she have gotten so used to him, used to his presence in her bed, in that short of a time? She turned over and buried her head in the pillows, imagining his musky, unique scent. Minutes past as she tried to calm, but she only grew more edgy.

The bed dipped and then two strong arms came around to embrace her, drawing her close to a thin, unclothed chest. A knowing voice whispered softly in her ear, "You are terribly restless, _ptichka_. Care to tell me why?" She turned and buried her nose in his neck, wrapping herself so neatly in his embrace, she could scarcely breathe. She ran her hands up and down his back, side, and arms, happy just to feel him. His low, knowing chuckle pierced her to the core. "Did you miss me, Megan?"

She nodded.

"And I missed you. Are you not going to talk to me, little bird?"

She shook her head, finally relaxing, and he kissed her forehead. "Then we shall sleep." And Meg sighed, the love and peace she felt the balm she needed to finally find rest.

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Erik had also been busy, it seemed, during the daytime hours that Megan had spent rehearsing. Upon the day of their arrival, Erik had watched as Megan was greeted enthusiastically by the brother and sister Demidov and loaded forthwith into their waiting carriage. Casually, after hiring a handsome, he made to follow, checking his own bags for pickup later. He was not lying when he told Megan he would not be far from her. In fact, he would be her own personal haunt for the next few days while he gauged the environment in which she would be living and working.

He would not risk her safety—not for anything.

Seeing their carriage turn off into a secluded park lane, Erik now knew which direction the Demidov Estate was located. He gestured for the handsome to drive on, and he returned back to the train station to collect his bags and rent a room.

Appearances were crucial at this stage of the game, and he must, to all appearances, appear a normal, rather affluent, if slightly eccentric, gentleman. He had blended in the edges of the mask with putty, powder and grist so his face appeared seamless. Adopting a centralized dialect to his seemingly native Russian accent, Erik told the innkeeper he had just relocated from Moscow to St. Petersburg and needed a temporary place to stay while he looked for land upon which to build his new home.

The innkeeper was a veritable fount of information and directed Erik in everything: from the best saddler, banker, and peddler of horse flesh to those brokering land deals. Erik paid the man handsomely for his time and attention and made his way to buy a horse.

Thus setting the foundations for the new life he and his Megan were going to lead.

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Upon waking that first morning, Meg had found him seated beside her in a chair, once more fully clothed; her morning tea beside her at the ready. Smiling, she sat up and took it, sipping. "So this is your plan? Sneak into my bed each night?" She looked over her cup at him and smiled. "Not that I'm complaining, mind."

"For now, yes it is. We will never spend another night apart from one another, Megan. I thought you _knew_ that." His eyes sparkled knowingly behind his black mask. "Now, do you know what you are going to be doing today?"

Finishing her tea with a grimace, Meg rose and seated herself in his lap. "Nick and I will rehearse." She shrugged. "What of you, maestro?"

He chucked her on her chin, "Ah. That, my dear, is a surprise for later. For now, you need to get ready. A maid is coming down the hall as we speak." A beat later, Meg heard a soft scratching at the door.

She raised her voice, "A moment, if you please." she stated in rough Russian. He stood with her in his arms and sat her down gently. "Will I see you at all today?"

His eyes sparkled, "So eager for my company, _ptichka_. No. You must focus, and constantly expecting my presence would hinder that." He lowered his mouth and kissed her savoring, "I will see you tonight after dinner."

And with one more lingering kiss, he was gone from her sight.

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And thus, three months had flown by with her days spent partnering Nikolai, and her nights partnering Erik.

Many nights they just held one another, Meg too tired, weary, and sore to do anything but hold him to her. On nights such as those, he was her tender, ardent lover, making exquisite love to her with his mouth and hands, making sure she drifted off to sleep relaxed and with a smile on her face.

Some nights, she would cry with her worries and her doubts, and he would hold her to him, rocking her as he whispered words of compassion and encouragement—words she would not, could not get from Nikolai if she wanted to excel. And on those nights, he would enter her gently, holding her to him as he quickened and moved within her, telling her with his words, his movements, his very soul how very special she was and how very much she meant to him.

And then some nights, when she was angry and frustrated, when she needed to vent her spleen, needed to scream her frustration, he let her, matching her temper, her nerves, her artistic fit of pique, with heat-tempered kisses of his own, pounding into her his need, swallowing her moans of tension and frustration, smothering them with ecstasy until her angry cries became those of _more_ and of sweet release. And they both found the succor they needed in so violent a coupling.

Last night was one such night, and Meg quivered as she remembered his rough possession; her hips would bear the bruises for a week at least.

She sighed, coming out of her reverie to a knock on the door. She wasn't expecting Erik for another hour, _not that he would use the door_, and no one else she knew would disturb her right before a performance. Suddenly having a deep feeling of foreboding, Meg put down her darning and standing, walked across the room. Drawing a steadying breath, she opened the door.

"Hello Auntie Meg! Surprise!"

Speechless, Meg could only stare at her friend, dumbfounded.

"Chri-Christine!" she managed to stutter after what seemed an eternity; her mind refusing to make sense of what it was seeing. There was her friend holding a rosy-cheeked, sleeping infant, waving its chubby fist in the air enthusiastically.

Christine remained oblivious to Meg's disquiet, and Meg blinked, drawing a deep breath to ease the pounding of her heart and her suddenly tense muscles. Her friend looked radiant! It seemed the mantles of marriage and motherhood agreed with her, rounding out her girlish figure into a gibson shape any woman would envy and any man stop to take notice.

But then Meg found herself enveloped in her friend's embrace; being careful not to jostle the little bundle she was holding in her arms. Meg quieted her voice to an agitated whisper, careful not to wake the sleeping babe, "Christine! What are you doing here?!"

She giggled gleefully, her brown curls bouncing in her excitement as she whispered, "Madam and I had this planned for months as a surprise. I was supposed to arrive yesterday so that we could have more time to spend together before your performance, but the train was delayed in a little backwater place in Belarus and so we didn't get here until today. Are you not going to invite me in, Meg?" Christine's tone when she asked was wry.

Meg blinked and stated weakly, "Oh-of course! Forgive me. It's just—I'm a bit surprised that's all."

"And who can blame you? I too am shocked at the turns our lives have taken. Me with a husband and child. And you, Marguerite Giry, Prima Ballerina for the premier ballet in St. Petersberg! Are you really going to perform for the Tsar and his wife?!" Meg watched in mystified fascination as Christine situated the infant on the oblong chaise, a mound of pillows surrounding him, making herself quite at home in the quarters Meg shared with Erik.

"This, Auntie Meg, is Christofer Eckehard Alexandre de Chagny, named for both my father and Raoul's." The pride shown through Christine's eyes and voice as she gazed lovingly down at her son. Meg studied the beautiful child. Rosy-cheeked, perfect and sleeping like a little angel, he had inherited Raoul's coloring but Meg was told that he had Papa Daae's eyes. "He is such a little miracle Meg! Honestly, he does something each and every day that makes me fall in love with him just a little bit more. And he's such a comfort too now that Raoul has been called away for his arctic expedition."

Meg started and looked up sharply. "Arctic expedition? You mean he left you all alone?"

Christine laughed and gestured to the babe, "Hardly alone, Meg. There's Christof and his nurse, the steward, the maid, the cook. Goodness, an entire regiment of people to see to our needs and safety. Besides, now that I'm in St. Petersberg, I will have you and Madam to stave off the blues while he's away." She sat gracefully on the settee, and knees atremble, Meg made to join her, "I'm told the journey will last three months at most, and then Raoul will meet us here and fetch us home." She smiled cheerily up at her, and Meg felt her heart sink.

Three months. She clutched the locket at the base of her throat in agitation. Three months alone. Without Raoul.

"Anyway, I'm so glad to get the chance to spend some time with you, my oldest friend and sister." Christine patted her hand, "It gets so lonely at the Chateau sometimes. Raoul's family still refuse to have anything to do with me, and you know I can't return to the opera." She wrinkled her pert nose, "I'm ever so thankful to have you here Meg! You are the only one who knows, besides Raoul and that Persian man, of course, the events of that night."

Meg closed her eyes and nodded stiffly. Yes, those events were ingrained in her memory. "You are the only one I could possibly confide in, Meg. Raoul, I love him, but he wouldn't –couldn't understand the combination of feelings I felt, still feel really, for my Angel." Meg's breathing began to hitch, her pulse beginning to spiral as her vision became spotty. "I still hear his voice inside my head sometimes, you know? And it's so twisted, and so incredibly wrong, but Meg, some small part of me still yearns for him—_to be with him_. Do you think that's wrong?"

Meg let out a choked sound, clutching her locket tighter.

Would Erik let a little thing like a child keep him from his heart's desire if his heart's desire was still having Christine?

"Meg? What is it you are clutching so tightly? What have you got there?" Trying vainly to calm her spiraling emotions, Meg relinquished her death grip on the locket just enough for Christine to reach and pry it from her grasp.

"A locket?" Meg heard the snick as it was opened. "Oh, Marguerite Giry, do you have a gentleman? Well, it's about time!" Meg felt the catch on the locket give way as Christine lifted it from her neck and studied it closely. "He's handsome as well as dignified. Oh, Meg. It looks like you both love one another very much! Who is he?"

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_**A/N:**_ The final update soon, dear patient readers.

_**DGM**_

**review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is most welcome.**


	15. Part XV

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The authoress would like to take the time to thank each and every one of you who have taken your time to read her story. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews, notes of encouragement, and support. Receiving them make my day that much brighter!

And now without further adieu—

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One Good Turn part XV

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"Mister Ribaldi." A voice exclaimed in a thick Russian accent. Meg's eyes shot open. "And it is an honor to meet you, Madam de Chagny." The voice continued speaking in heavily Russian-accented French, drawing ever nearer. "Megan says you are the sister of her heart—her family." The voice appeared behind her, as did two gloved hands placing themselves gently but firmly on her shoulders. Meg began to tremble. "As such, it is quite the honor to meet your acquaintance."

This was surreal. Too strange to be borne. Right then, the child chose that moment to awaken and cry, and Christine rose to attend him. Meg looked up and saw Erik's unblinking gaze fastened on Christine; his flesh-colored mask blended so that his face appeared uniform, ordinary and seamless. His hands and eyes communicated what his facial expressions and voice could not, and she swallowed back the emotion she was feeling watching him as he watched Christine rock her babe. Her friend began humming snippets of nonsense to the child. And Meg closed her eyes when she heard her begin to sing softly. She felt Erik's hands on her shoulders tense the slightest bit.

After a minor eternity, the child quieted and went back to sleep. And seating herself once more while holding the babe, Christine looked at them both expectantly, oblivious to all.

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_Christine_…in front of him! Holding her child that was fathered by another!

Erik's agile mind sought to make sense of this turn of events. He had heard Megan speaking to another from his entrance through the bedroom window. The other spoke softly. Yet from the first word, he knew _her_ voice. She still had feelings for him! She still wanted in some small way to be with him!

It was incredible. It was farcical!

Spying from the doorjamb, he studied her.

The child he had known and tutored had blossomed beautifully, of that there could be no doubt. Her figure was lush and round, her waist still tiny though her bosom had swelled to accommodate the task of motherhood. And the child—the fop's child—was, of course, formed perfectly.

He had heard Megan make a choked sound, and then Christine was reaching for Megan's locket. The locket that held his picture…and then she was proclaiming _him_ handsome!

Erik had chosen that moment to make his entrance.

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Placing his hands proprietarily on Megan's shoulders, Erik watched Christine as she tended her babe, his hands tensing minutely on Megan's form. Noticing her trembling, he looked down, and drew a silent gasp at what he saw.

His Megan was terrified! Terrified! The fear in her eyes bared for him to see.

Sweet Jesu! Could she think him so faithless? So lacking in restraint that he would leave her?!

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath to calm the bevy of emotions he was feeling, isolating each one to deal with later. Releasing her shoulders, he sat at the other end of the settee, putting a small bit of distance between them both. This was a very dangerous game he was playing, one wrong move and all the plans he had been making could topple away like so much a castle of sand. His very future with the woman he loved depended on the guise he was portraying.

He spoke casually, the mildest bit of interest in his disguised voice as he stated, "And so madam, I take it you will be staying here in St. Petersberg for a time."

Christine's eyes sparkled with delight looking from the one to the other of them. She was obviously happy for her friend. "Yes, indeed, monsieur. Three months more or less to be exact."

"You must call me Ribaldi. Everyone else does."

"And you may feel free to call me Christine. After all, I believe we are going to be seeing one another fairly frequently over the coming months." She gave a charming wink, and his Megan gave another choked sound. Erik breathed in and out, moving minutely closer to Megan. He reached over and pulled the bell pull, ordering tea.

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"So, how did you both meet?" Christine studied them expectantly over her cup of tea, blowing the billowing steam to cool it.

He fixed Megan a cup which she promptly sat down again untouched. He moved minutely closer to her, and reaching casually, Erik took her hand and held it in his as he stated in Russia-fied French, "I was quite despondent upon meeting her, Madam de Chagny. You see, I am a composer, and since you yourself— as Megan tells me—were once an artist, I need not relate the melancholia that can come from personal failure and romantic heartbreak."

Christine tutted and nodded sympathetically, and Erik had to work from keeping a dry note from entering his voice, "Passions run high for those of us so inclined, and so, I must say that upon our first real acquaintance, I was not very, how do you say… _nice_." He heard Megan snort softly beside him, and he chafed her hand, encouraging her to stay _with_ him a little longer, and not escape into her dream world. "In writing a piece of music, I had occasion to call upon the ballet company to study the movements of the dancers as they perform. And I need not tell you that Megan shown like a diamond among them. And from the moment I watched her perform, I was enamored." Erik adopted a casual air and reached around, pulling Megan closer to him until she rested against his side. "I don't know if you've ever seen Mademoiselle Giry perform with her partner Monsieur Demidov, but they are sensational together and not to be missed."

He saw Christine smile widely, "I am indeed looking forward to it! But please do go on with your tale."

He nodded his head in acquiescence, "And so, upon realizing my feelings for mademoiselle, I proceeded to do everything in my power to drive her away." Christine laughed lightly, and Erik allowed a small smile to grace his lips as he studied Christine who was looking at them both expectantly. He stated without remorse, "After all, I had suffered heartbreak just before meeting Megan, and the woman responsible had quite demolished my hopes of ever finding one in which I could trust again with my heart."

Christine broke in. "Oh! I do hope the woman responsible receives her comeuppance." Erik smiled viciously. "The woman responsible quite wrote me out of her life. I feel I can only do likewise. After all, turnabout is fair play, Madam de Chagny. If there is one thing in this life of which I am certain, it is that." He shook his head sadly and sighed, "Ah, but in abusing me thusly, the woman showed me what love truly was _not_. Whereas my Megan—," Erik picked up and kissed her hand, meeting her eyes and holding her gaze, "—showed me exactly what the meaning of love is." He turned towards her fully, taking both her hands.

"I had wanted to save this, my dear, for after the performance, but I believe now may be the appropriate time." Erik lowered himself to one knee before her seated form to Christine's gasp. He met Megan's uncertain, yet hopeful, stare, and touched her quivering chin. "Monsieur Demidov has purchased the rights to perform _The Red Shoes_ pending a proviso of creative collaboration with you." Her eyes grew wide.

"I am to be held on retainer for consultation concerning the inner workings of the theatre and to give advice concerning the operations and management therein. It seems in some aspects, Mademoiselle Demidov is quite out of her depth. And when she heard of my previous experience in theatre management, as well as a few well-placed suggestions regarding the management of _her_ ballet, it seems she found it worthwhile to keep me around." Erik's eyes sparkled. "In taking Monsieur Demidov's advice and a very generous offer of an allotment of land at a reasonable price, I have built us a house rather near this one so that you may continue perfecting your art without the inconvenience of a long trek to and from practice and the theatre. As such, I would like us to marry as soon as possible. That is, if you agree?"

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By the end of Erik's speech, Meg's heart was in her throat, and her head was spinning. He had been in contact with Nikolai _and_ Valentina! He was going to be a consultant for the ballet! He built them a house?! She replied chokingly, "Was that a proposal, maestro?"

His lips twisted wryly and his yellow eyes sparkled with humor. "It was."

"Well, come on, Meg! Don't keep the man in suspense! Let 'im know!"

Erik and Meg both turned their heads slowly to look at Christine. The brown-headed vixen smiled mischievously at them both and adjusting the child she held, cleared her throat, "Right, then. I can see that my presence here is slightly unwarranted, so... Christof and I we'll… just see ourselves out. Shall we?" As she said this, she gathered her babe close, rose, and quietly left the room.

Erik dropped the Russian affectation from his speech and peeled off his flesh-colored mask, preferring to face her in his natural state for this all important conversation. His eyes held hers steadily, and he felt a bit of anxiety when she didn't immediately answer. "Well, what say you Mademoiselle Giry? Will you do Erik the honor of becoming Erik's wife in name as well as deed?"

Meg proceeded to think on it for all of two seconds before launching herself at him, laughing, "Of course I'll marry you, you foolish man! How could you ever doubt it?!" They wound up on the floor, Erik pinned beneath her in an ensuing tangle of arms and limbs.

He blinked up at her, incredulous, "_How could I ever doubt it, Megan?! _How could _you_ ever doubt it? Mon dieu, woman! You show me in one day more love and acceptance than I have ever known in my entire life before you. You have given me faith and restored my hope. You cherish me as I cherish and worship you!" He hugged her tightly to him, feeling the soft mounds of her breasts push against his thin chest. She sighed and burrowed against his neck inhaling his scent. Erik closed his eyes, "Oh, my sweet love! How could you, for one moment, think yourself so diminished in my eyes?"

When she didn't answer, Erik nudged her shoulder and forced her head up until she met his stare once more. "I meant what I said, Megan. The past is the past. My acquaintanceship with Christine de Chagny née Daae is no more. From now on, my dear, every person I encounter will only know me as Ribaldi, the brilliant and eccentric Russian composer. And only you, my Megan, will know me as Erik." He brought her left hand up to his mouth and placed a gentle, lingering kiss.

When Meg looked down, a square-cut emerald ring adorned her ring finger, and she smiled softly, examining the beautiful stone in the light. "It matches the other I gave you so long ago, _ptichka_. I will have that one mounted in a tiara perhaps, so that you may wear it in your beautiful hair." So saying, Meg felt him deftly begin to pluck the pins from her hair free until the golden, fragrant mass tumbled all around them. He met her gaze, his yellow eyes shining brightly, "After all, my Megan, I plan to spend the rest of my life treating you like a queen."

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_Epilogue_

_Ten Years Later…_

"Christine says she and Raoul are expecting another child."

"Mon dieu! What does that make? Number four? Five?

"Six actually. Remember, her last birthing was twins." Meg finished securing the pin that held her hair in place, once more admiring the emerald tiara as it glittered from the new electric lights that Erik just had installed in their Russian home a few weeks ago. The years had been quite kind to the little ballerina, gracing her with a gentle poise and self assurance that had served her well in her position as Principal Dancer for St. Petersberg, world renown for her role as Karen in Ribaldi's _The Red Shoes_. "And then Valentina writes she and her husband will be meeting us in Morocco for the tour of _The Red Shoes_ in a couple months. Nick says the box offices have been sold out for weeks. He's thinking of extending the tour."

Meg glanced over her shoulder at Erik slyly. He was fussing with the flaps of his bowtie; she noticed her maestro's hands were less than steady. "You're going to be brilliant, you know?" She met his eyes in the mirror; they were filled with anxiety. "This is hardly your first premier, Erik."

He huffed, "Yes, my dear. But it's the first of its kind to utilize such new-fangled technology." The bowtie refused to be subdued, and Meg watched as Erik yanked it off in frustration and began again. Tsking, she stood, and making her way over to him, took the bowtie in hand and steadily finished the job.

She then drew his unmasked face down until it barely grazed her own as she met his stare. "You are a genius! (kiss) A brilliant, successful composer! (kiss, kiss) And now, you can add cinematographer to that list. (kiss, kiss, kiss!) He smiled, and she felt the tension in his thin shoulders relax slightly.

She hugged him tight, mumbling, "And in all the success that is to come, maestro, don't you go forgetting you are _my_ husband!"

He laughed, a sound that never failed to invoke tendrils of desire arcing straight to her core. Meg looked at the clock hopefully but then sighed; they didn't have time. She felt his fingers draw her chin up until she was looking at him once more. He stated solemnly, "Of all that I am, Megan, being your husband is my greatest feat and joy. And don't you for one moment, _ptichka_, forget it."

_Finis_.

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_**A/N:**_ I do hope the wait was worth it dear readers! Please let this unassuming authoress know won't you by putting a review in the alms box on your way out the door.

Thank you! And I do hope we meet one another again soon.

Until next time!

_**DGM**_


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